


Notes from the Apocalypse

by Aimz_ICR



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6759637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimz_ICR/pseuds/Aimz_ICR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scream is lodged in her throat. The roar of the echoing shot looms at the back of her mind. The light and force of the first bomb's fall is in her mind's eye. The world is broken and she broke with it. But she has to find her son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The armour clanks and beeps, the plates pivoting and she feels the night air against the back of her neck. For a moment, she lingers in the power armour, almost too afraid to leave the carapace that has kept her alive for so long. But it's open, and the sights are dimmed, and she has no choice but to step backwards.

Feet on the soil. The night breeze in her hair. Every shadow and shape around her seen without the haze of glass and biometric readings. She's human again, and she feels very, very unsafe.

Her hands grip the inner lining of the gauntlets. Instinct - no, fear - is demanding that she throw herself back into the suit and stay there. She closes her eyes, and breathes. Or tries to. She feels as tightly wound as a spring.

"Well, hello there, beautiful."

She swallows down her nervousness, and gives the ghoul a faint almost-smirk. He had such a way of being disarming.

He smirks back from where he leans against the crumbling wall. But it fades to a look of concern not long after. "You alright?"

"I'm fine." There's a gleam of silver on her finger, and she rubs it out of habit. She can see Hancock pretending not to see the gesture. "Just... wishing there could be another way."

But wearing the power armour, where she's headed, would be suicide. So she has to climb out of it. She has to go where she’s going in nothing but her Vault suit. For safety's sake, she pulls out the fusion core and tosses it to Hancock, who catches it one-handed. She gives the armour one more pat, and closes the hatch with a firm turn of the wheel.

"It'll be safe here," Hancock assures her, dropping the core into his pocket.

"It's not the armour I'm worried about." 

"Yeah." He pushes away from the wall, and stands with her. "I know."

They face a once-vacant block. A house had stood there once, but they tore it down for materials. The haphazard jumble of wires and hammered sheet metal and fuses and even a salvaged computer bank looked so different in the evening light. Sinister, almost. A mad scientist's backyard project. Only, Sturges made for a very poor mad scientist. His hair was too well-coiffed, for starters. And he was covered in grease, swearing quietly and musically as he made the last few checks of the array. Flicking switches. Tugging at wires. Occasionally hitting a part with a wrench, and apologising not long after.

Hancock risked resting a hand on her shoulder. "... This is gonna work."

"... are you trying to reassure me, or you, or..." She didn't shrug him off. "... Or do you really think this'll... take me to Shaun?"

"If it don't, I know you. You'll be right back here, hoppin' back in that tin can, an' you'll beat your way to the Institute. Crack every synth skull until they open the door for you."

"Hah." The laugh is barely half-hearted.

"... this'll work." He squeezes her shoulder. "You'll get your boy back."

She wishes she could imagine it. But after all the frustrations and heartache of getting even this far, the thought of holding Shaun in her arms is nearly incomprehensible. Holding her baby boy again… She feels the tension lock in her throat and her stomach and for a moment she can’t breathe. The beginnings of a tremor in her hands, weakness in her knees. _Oh god, not here. Not now. Not while Hancock can see me._

A vast spark of energy lances from the array tower ahead of her. She’s blind, for a moment, at the flash, a bolt of lightning that screeches like some kind of forgotten banshee. Then her vision clears, and she sees the top of the array thrumming with pure blue light, like something out of a comic book. The generators she made, the ones that ran on moonshine, were doing this.  Her mouth was dry.

The ghoul’s wasn’t. “Holy _shit_.”

“It’s ready!” Sturges shouts. “C’mon!”

She rests her hand on Hancock’s, desperate for the warmth and texture and realness of his skin. “Now or never,” she whispers, to hide the tremble.

He laces his fingers through hers, and squeezes. “You got this.”

He believes in her. That’s probably the only reason she can stride forward right now. Her legs feel like rubber and she has to fight to breathe normally ( _in, out, in, out_ , she has to chant in her head). Sparks fly as she takes her place under the glowing beacon. Her hair stands on end.

_Shaun_.

Sturges presses something into her hand, and she hears the words and nods but right now all she can feel is the crackling of electricity, the pounding of her heart, the way her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. She licks her lips to move it, to prove to herself that she can do so.

_Shaun. I’m coming_.

Hancock paces back and forth. She watches him, as Sturges hits buttons and turns dials and calls out power readings that don’t mean anything to her. Is the ghoul smiling reassuringly? Or is he just tense and concerned? Hancock paces. Up and down the road. Never taking his eyes off her.

She yelps as she feels a brush of steam hit her back.

“Uh, don’t worry about that tubing wigglin’ around. It’s… just there for decoration.”

Hancock freezes. Hands in fists. Does he dare run forward? No. Frozen. Watching her.

She stares back.

Every step to get to Shaun has led to another. He’s supposed to be at the Institute, but if he’s not… She can’t do this again.

“Hold onto your butt!”

She can’t do this.

She closes her eyes, but is still blinded as the light lances down on her. Does it hurt? It feels like it should hurt. Her fingertips and toes buzz but her legs and arms are numb. She knows where her liver is. There’s an old scar, rippling around her skin like a fish in a pond. She takes a deep breath and feels herself fade into pieces.

… is that… music?


	2. Vault 111

****She destroys the silence with her ragged sobs and screams, but even those are hushed as the echoes seem to die

   _like everything else in here_

and she retches out what little she had in her stomach onto the concrete floor. Her hands are numb. It’s so cold.

It’s so quiet.

Too quiet.

This place quiets _her_.

She weeps in silence, mouth wide in a scream she doesn’t dare voice. She can’t.

She’s crushed by all this quiet.

Eventually, she can lift her head, can push herself shakily to her feet. Her hand reaches for the red handle - red red red red red - and she pulls, stepping back as the door swings upwards and open. She wants it to be a nightmare, wants Nate to rub his head and give a good-morning grumble and step out to hold her. To whisper ‘c’mon, babe, let’s get out of this place’ and kiss her forehead and hold her, warm and strong and enveloping.

But his blood is frozen on the inner walls of the pod. His head half-turned can’t hide the fact that half his skull is gone. His proud soldier’s body slumped in the seat and frozen there for all eternity.

The scream is lodged at the back of her throat like a golf ball. She can’t breathe.

But she does.

The air is so cold. Her tears are freezing on her cheeks.

 _Nate_. Her lips form the word. His name. Her love. She reaches out for his hand, to hold him, to make him wake and rise and smile at her and everything would be alright again.

His ring slips from his frozen finger, and she gives a moan of anguish (she sounds like a beast) as she clasps the silver band tight in her fist. It sits in her palm, like a bullet; she closes her right hand around the fist, and rubs her own ring, silver. Silver, silver, cold silver.

A wordless cry of anguish.

The silence looms around her, admonishing. But she is tearful and angry and broken and she must be heard.

If he hears her he might come back.

… He can’t come back.

He can _never_ come back.

The golf ball rolls. Another beastlike moan escapes her. This time, a name.

“Nate.”

The silver warms in her hand. Is it because she’s holding it? Or does he hear her?

She breathes hard. Hard and loud and ragged and defiant. This place will not silence her.

The scream in her throat melts, dripping down the back of her throat like the water drips from the frozen ceiling.

“I’ll find who did this.” She looks at his face, the cheek she used to kiss, those freckles she used to count, the ear she liked to bite, the crew cut she used to run her fingers through, those eyes _that will never open and look at her in adoration ever again_. “And I’ll get Shaun back.”

The silence, the sadness, the pain, washes over her.

“I promise,” she whispers, as her voice locks up again.

Nate says nothing.

With the last of her strength, she closes the capsule. Her forehead on the glass, and she weeps.

Silent.

Silence.

It’s so cold down here.


	3. Sanctuary Road

A hand raises in panic to shield her face, from the light, the light, the light. Nate’s ring clenched in her fist - _everything’s going to be okay, honey… I love you_ \- but it’s not the bomb, this time. It’s the sun. Brighter than summer. The air tastes of heat, dryness. She has to close her eyes.

As soon as the rumbling of the vault lift has stopped, she swears the silence below has followed her. Her whimper of pain and surprise sounds kitten-weak.

How long was she down there, in the dark?

She dares not turn her back on the sun, out of some… fear… that if she does another bomb will fall behind her and she’ll be blown into the trees, into dust, lost forever. She can’t go back down into the Vault.

She can’t go back down there ever again.

The air. She gags on it. So dry. Dust and… rust. Rust and things left out too long. Where is the smell of grass, of flowers, of the Sunday roasts and pumpkin pies? … gone. In a flash.

_I’m the only one left._

Her boots crunch over the platform. She hopes its just carapace pieces from the giant cockroaches she stomped to death, and not… not the bodies she tripped over in the entryway. The skeletons that collapsed as her passing disturbed them. People who died in the Vault and vanished before she could even take stock that they were there. Leaving nothing but dust, and then not even that.

_The only one._

_… no. Shaun. Shaun’s out there somewhere. I have to find him._

The Vault looked over Sanctuary Hills. Maybe it had been the reason that the little fledgling suburb had its name; it was all bought and paid for by the US government, after all. But now she looks down and has no idea where she is. There’s the road. There are the houses. But everything’s collapsed. Ruined. Overgrown. The trees all starched and bare and dead. That’s Sanctuary Hills. That’s her home.

Or it was.

The scream lodges in her throat again. She tightens her grip on Nate’s ring and makes the slow climb down the slope.

She’s far too tired to hope this is a dream. No nightmare would ever be this cruel. The silence is following her. Where are the crickets? The birds? The distant sounds of traffic? Any possible sign that the world isn’t some barren, hollow shell that she walks through alone?

“… mum?”

A hum. A clicking. She stands in numbness and watches the Mr Handy drift over to her, all rust and occasional twitches. Noise. She gives a strangled gasp, wanting the noise, wanting the voice, never wanting to hear silence again.

“As I live and breathe!” He does neither, but then neither does she. “It’s … it’s really you! After all this time!”

“… Codsworth?” She reaches out to touch him. His claw closes gently around her hand, and she wants to weep in relief, in joy. She’s not alone. But she can’t weep. All her tears were frozen in Vault 111. “What… what happened to… the world?”

And what little hope she had managed to build comes crashing down like a sandcastle as he speaks. Geraniums…? She takes her hand back, takes a step back, looks at the dead hedges he’s been trimming. This is worse than the silence.

“… where is sir, by the by?”

The scream locks her throat. The words taste cold and rusty. Frozen blood and brain matter. “They… they killed him.”

No nightmare would be this cruel. Has she gone mad, then? Is this some fever dream from inside a cell, where a calm-voiced caretaker suggests she play a nice calming game to distract herself from… from what? Herself?

 _I always knew I’d go mad someday_.

Nate’s ring is in her palm.

This is real.

Everything hurts, and everything is real.

“Shaun’s been kidnapped. But I’m going to find him.” Her voice is raw. She’s not used to this light, this heat, or the unscreamed scream that won’t leave her throat. But she’s angry, and hurting, and she’s not mad. She’s alive. “I’m going to get my baby back.”

His voice is soothing, and she hates it. She interrupts his offer of a snack - 200 years, my god, _my god_ , the terror rises over her like a cresting wave - and stares into the closest optic. She demands an answer.

Can a robot weep? No. No tears. But she hears the brokenness in her voice, and feels something break to hear him so broken.

Grief.

“Codsworth.” She takes his claw again. Squeezes it. He can’t feel it, but here they are, the two of them. Centuries of grief between them. Is it a relief to not be alone anymore? Yes. Yes it is.

… ‘anymore’. For her, it was a heartbeat. A moment. Maybe ten minutes, if she wants to let her thoughts drift to how long it was between each event  she remembers. Her old life swept away by the bomb blast and then by another explosion, close-quarters (she’ll remember the sound of that gun for as long as she lives) but… 200 years.

This is a lot to take in. Codsworth’s already taken denial; she’ll have to find another way to process it.

“I found this.” He takes his claw from her, pivots, then presses a plastic tape into her hand. “I believe Sir was keeping it as a… a surprise. But then, everything happened…”

His ring in one hand. His voice in the other.

_Cold and dark and silent._

“… thankyou, Codsworth.” She sounds like she means it.

The robot sniffles; no nose, no mucus, but he needs to. He feels. “You’re welcome.” And then he’s fine. “Now, enough feeling sorry for myself. Shall we search the neighbourhood together? Sir and young Shaun may turn up yet.”

He doesn’t believe her. Or he’s unable to. 200 years, alone, waiting. Going mad.

But this was her home. She lived here. There has to be something. Even if it’s nothing more than a fragment. Or a holotape. Or a memory she can curl up around.

If they’re going to be mad, at least they’re together.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

She taps the side of the Pip-Boy, and slips the tape inside. She can listen once they've searched the houses.

 

* * *

 

_We love you._

She puts her head down and runs, leaving the ruins behind her. There’s nothing left but broken houses and a tomb in the hill. No reason to linger. No reason to stay. Everyone’s dead, everyone is gone.

_We love you._

The scream in her throat throbs like a second heart. How is she breathing? How can she breathe in this air, so hot and dry, so tasting of blood?

_We love you._

A man and a dog lie butchered together at the end of the bridge, lying dead at Washington’s feet; she leaps over the bodies, runs harder. Death’s everywhere. It’s all her fault.

_We love you._

How far can she run? It’ll follow her wherever she goes. If it isn’t ahead of her already, waiting.

_Goodbye, honey. We love you._

She collapses by the roadside, exhausted and breathless. Her body aching from the sprint. The asphalt is warm through her suit, rough on her hands, her hair. Dead leaves. Dust. Sand. Ruin.

_Goodbye, honey._

She clutches herself into a ball and with what little breath she has left, she howls. Her face is dry but that ache in her chest is so real and palpable and it’s tearing her apart.

_We love you._

Wheezing. Panting. Silent again. She swallows, and the scream’s not there. Not in her throat. But she can feel it, waiting. It’ll be back. It’ll get her, one day.

Something warm touches her cheek. Again, again. Her eyes snap open, and she rolls through the dust to escape from…

_… oh._

… the concerned, sympathetic eyes of a dog. German Shepherd. Or… what was the other word for it, the better word? Alsatian.

She wipes her face, embarrassed to be caught grieving, even by an animal. “… h-hey, boy.” She sits up, pulling herself together. Drawing a curtain around her. “… what… what are you doing out here, by yourself? Where’s your owner?”

The dog whimpers.

She hesitantly reaches out a hand. It licked her face. It wouldn’t bite her. Yes, it lets her pet it, even nuzzles into her arms.

Warm and real and alive.

“… okay.” She buries her face in the dog’s fur, then takes a deep breath. Rises to her feet.  

There’s the road. She could start running again. Running and running until there’s nothing left of her but her scream.

 _We love you_.

She groans softly. _Shaun. He’s still out there. I can’t lose him, too. I have to find him._

She can’t run from this.

The dog whines, and nuzzles her leg. And sits, expectantly.

There’s the road. … but she won’t run. Not from this.

_I promise._

She takes a breath, and opens her fist. She can’t lose this. She unzips her jumpsuit, finds that little pocket, and zips it secure. Now she can feel the ring pressing against her heart. Nate. Right where he belongs.

 _I promise_. Her lowered hand rests on the dog’s head. Ruffling its ears. _I love you, too._

The dog gives her a look that might be happiness. Might be relief. Might be love.

_We love you._

“… okay. Let’s stick together, then.”


	4. Concord

Her arms ache from the hand-cranked rifle. The mask she wears still smell like a dead man's breath, but at least the hoses and filters make the harsh, hot air easier to breathe. She doesn't feel like she can keep still, her pulse racing and pounding like the red light in the gun she'd been told to grab.

Like the one he was holding, too.

"I don't know who you are, but your timing is impeccable."

Behind smoked glass goggles, she studies the man. What kind of anachronism is he? With his pinned hat and old-fashioned coat, he looks like he stepped out of a history book. Most of him, anyway. Those aren’t old eyes. They’re young and bright and hopeful. Lively eyes. This fellow can't even see her face but he looks at her like he's relieved, beyond relieved, to see her. Like she just saved his life. 

She doesn't feel like a saviour. She's just killed twenty people. Maybe more. She'd lost count in all the blood and bullets and the heat from the laser. And now her body is thrumming with adrenaline. Or maybe she was some horrible vampire, like from the comics, and the pulse in her veins was from all the lives she'd just taken. She feels sick. She feels like she needs to sit down. Or maybe lay down, and never get up again.

The dog licks blood from his muzzle, and happily trots over to sit at an old woman's knee. Like he belongs there. Like this is family.

"Name's Preston Garvey." He offers his hand. "You don't look like you're from around here."

She forces her hand to unlock, to flex, to reach; she forces herself to lower the gun and return the handshake. "You'd be surprised."

* * *

The old suit hums to life, and she breathes a weak sigh of relief. It still works, after all these years. And now the moment of truth… She takes hold of the wheel, turns sharply to the left. There’s rust, and resistance, and it squeals. But then the plates open up and waits for her.

She pulls off the makeshift gasmask, and leaves it at her feet. Her face itches from the old hessian sackcloth. She holds her breath, like a swimmer rising to the surface, as she steps into the suit and feels it close around her.

It can’t be that hard to use. They mass-produced them for the soldiers, after all. A housewife could use it.

Through the glass, she sees the world. Bisected by a grid of yellow, readouts and meters and numbers that for a moment bewilder her. She lets herself breathe - it smells of rust but at least it isn’t nuclear-baked air - and listens to the clicks and creaks as she tests herself. Her range of motion.

She’s so much taller now. Stronger. Slower, maybe, but her steps are longer. She makes her awkward away across the wreckage to grab the old gun. Her hands, slow, clumsy, open the casing, check the ammunition. Plenty. Good. But will this even work? It’s been out here for so long…

There are five scared people downstairs who need it to work.

She needs it to work.

Her breaths are so loud. Her heartbeat, too.  Then there’s the sound of metal on metal. Of monitors tracking her vitals, and the integrity of the suit. Motion. _Noise_. The silence can’t touch her in here. She’s safe.

Alive.

She hefts the gun and stomps to the edge of the roof, looking down at the broken street of Concord. She takes aim at one of the rusted cars, and squeezes the trigger. The barrel spins, and for a moment there’s nothing, but then the ping-ping-ping of metal on metal.

The raiders point at and shout, and turn their guns on her.

She turns her gun on them, watches one of them turn into a bloody perforated mess of meat fragments. Noise. They scream and curse and fire back, and she hears their little lead fragments bounce off her armour without leaving so much as a dent.

She doesn’t have to be fast. Just inexorable. Turn, slowly, mowing down anyone who pokes their head out from cover. And when she can’t see them anymore, she jumps. Gun in one hand, the other a fist that braces her as she lands. The ground shakes, the concrete makes a crater from the impact. Someone loses their balance but she just stands and raises her gun at them.

“Come on, you motherfuckers!” Pulse elevated. Breathing erratic. Gun barrel whirring. Jaw creaking and lips burning from the grin she can’t seem to control. “We don’t have all day!”

And she pulls the trigger. Turns this way and that. Hosing them down. They don't stand a chance.

In the long afternoon shadows, the hazy, golden sunlight, there’s a flash. A sound. She quails back under the heat and light, crying out in -

                        _and there’s Nate, holding Shaun, telling her_ _everything’s going to be alright_.

\- and the rain of shrapnel from the car she’d used as target practice. She pulls the trigger, the helmet echoing from her own wordless howl, peppering the walls with holes and _there’s another one_ she turns him to a reddish spray on the walls and cracked road.

A dog barks, loud, urgent. The noise cuts through to her.

She’s _here_.

She’s not on the platform at Vault 111. She didn’t just see the bomb falling again. She just… she just saw…

… It’s fine. She’s fine.

She’s _alive_.

She loosens her grip on the trigger, and breathes. Her heart is pounding out a Benny Goodman tune.

It’s _done_.

… no. There’s something moving down there, at the far end of the street. For a moment she just gapes, unable to comprehend just what it is she’s seeing. It’s _huge_. It flips an old car with one clawed hand, and roars. She’s _never_ heard a sound like that. All other noise - even the _silence_ \- goes quiet in the wake of that sound, that roar. That primal bellow of something ancient and powerful.

She remembers when the old woman’s voice gasped and wheezed like wind through the dead trees. _There’s somethin’ comin’. Drawn by the noise an’ the chaos. And it… is… angry._

She doesn’t feel invincible anymore. She’s a housewife on the steps of her home as the sirens wail. She’s a girl on the doorstep as the night sweeps in. She’s a rabbit. A mouse. And that, that thing, is…

… is _looking right at her_.

"What the everloving _fuck_ are you?" Her voice is small and wavering.

It roars again - the world shakes to the sound - before it drops to all fours, and barrels down the cracked and bloody street towards her.

The sound of her screaming seems louder than the scream of the minigun. She watches bullets bounce of the tough leather hide and _shit-fuck-mother **fuck**_ it’s on her. She feels her feet leave the ground as it picks her up like a ragdoll, roars in her face, and then slams her back down into the street. She forms a new crater, a second one, and she loses her grip on the gun oh god those claws, it’s _biting_ at her and the metal of her armour is just _crumpling_ under the force of those jaws.

Then it rears back, roaring in pain. She sees a blur of fur and ferocity - Dogmeat! - biting at the beast from the back of the neck.

The monster just reaches back, grabs the dog, and flings him halfway across the street. Turns to roar at the whimpering furry body. Lowers itself to charge.

_No! Not Dogmeat!_

She grabs the gun, pulls the trigger. Aims for those horrible clawed feet, knees, ankles.

It staggers, turns back to her, furious and feral. She aims for the neck, the face. An eyeball pops like a cranberry, teeth shatter, hide tears open to weep blood far too dark to be red. A claw swipe, and she teeters, the bullets ripping up pavement. A blinking readout tells her she’s missing a leg.

She feels blood running down her thigh.

Her scream turns defiant, angry, desperate, and she drags herself backwards into a building - a church? - to give herself some cover as she keeps the run pointed at that huge, vicious thing.

It roars at her, spraying blood from its battered maw, and a clawed hand rakes across the front of her suit before it falls. She falls, too, leaning against the doorframe, and she quietly thanks every name of God she knows.

A whimper, down the street. Movement. Dogmeat. He’s alive, too. Limping. A weak tail-wag, as he sees her.

She groans, staggers to her feet. Panting, gasping, bleeding, the suit hissing from sliced pressure valves and groaning from the places where metal has been rent and utterly broken. She’s alive.

She looks down at the monster, the huge behemoth of scale and claw and bone.

"Fuck you..." She whispers, defiant, her blood still racing in terror. "Fuck you _double_."

* * *

“You’re a woman out of time, out of hope. But all’s not lost. I can feel… your son’s energy. He’s alive.”

Those two words are like a lightning rod. She’d thought she was out of energy, moving simply because the motion of the broken suit kept her going. But the adrenaline surged through her fresh and new and, “Where is he? Where is Shaun?!”

Mama Murphy hangs her old head and sighs out whispers of words that, in any other context, wouldn’t make a lick of sense. But there had to be something to it. After all, she'd been right about the big angry monster. And she’d dreamed of a place called Sanctuary. Sanctuary Hills was never on any map. Not officially. But what else could it be? It can’t have been a coincidence for Mama Murphy to know about it. _The Sight, huh?_

It was funny, in a strange, sad kind of way. This… strange new world has a whole new set of rules. Bad guys with guns. Monsters. Women who could see the future. She felt like she was one costumed hero away from being right smack in the middle of a comic book.

The great green jewel of the Commonwealth? Even the name sounded fantastical. Diamond City.  

She takes a breath, and sees Preston looking at her, concerned. Afraid… but not of her. For her. _We’ve only just met and you’re worried about me_. She’s glad for the helmet, so he can’t see her face. So he can’t see her looking at his costume, and wondering. The Minute Man. _Sounds damn more convincing a hero than Manta Man_.

But then she appeared, swooping in to save the day. A knight in power armour. … No, not a hero. Just someone who happened to be there, and do what had to be done. She’ll leave the hero work for those who actually deserve the title.

The afternoon shadows stretch and stretch as they all walk together. The twisted metal leg makes running impossible, and it isn’t like Mama Murphy can do more than a little shuffle. Preston leads, but she knows where he’s going. Past the Red Rocket, past Washington, and over the bridge.

 _Welcome to Sanctuary Hills_. The sign’s still there.

The stars flicker overhead, a crescent moon. They’ve never looked so clear. As the others cross over the river, moving to examine the old houses, she and Preston stand side by side, under the statue of Washington. He tips his hat to the statue, and turns to smile at her.

“I should’a listened to Mama Murphy all along. Pretty nice place she’s found for us. I think we could settle down here, make it a place to call home. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” The suit measures her heartbeat, but not the way she feels so suddenly… tired. Wrung out. Empty. She looks at the sign, the little pretence of normality this place was supposed to be. “It’s strange, being back here.”

He cocks his head. “What do you mean? You used to live here, or something?”

“… yeah. Before the war. Before everything was ruined.”

“What do you mean? Before what war?” His eyes widen, lips parting in amazement as he looks at her. “Are you saying…”

“I lived here.” The suit is broken. She wishes it were stronger, so her voice didn’t waver so much. “Over 200 years ago. I was… frozen…” _Cold and dark and silent._ “… for most of it. Just woke up a little while ago.”

“Damn. Like one of those prewar ghouls.”

 _Ghouls_?

Maybe she should be angry that he just accepts what she says. It’s the truth but she wants someone to call her a liar. She wants to be called out, she wants to defend herself. She wants to _fight_.

She’s so tired.

“… you say you were frozen. Anybody else make it out with you?”

“Just my son.” The scream curls up and nestles in the back of her throat. Her palms sweat. Her heart thuds. But he doesn’t see it. The metal keeps her safe. “Somebody took him away while I was trapped. I’m… I’m looking for him.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I hope you find him. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

She wants to scream and cry. But the look on his face. Admiration. Empathy. She can’t. The scream just hardens in her throat, and no matter how she tries to clear it, it doesn’t go away. It won’t.

“… and I hope you don’t mind, but… I need to ask another favour. I’ve had word from a settlement asking for help.”

Help? They want help, and he wants to send _her_?

 _You have no idea who I am, Preston Garvey_.

She hefts the minigun, briefly gesturing to the twisted leg and the claw-rent breastplate. “… first thing in the morning, Preston.”

His grin is like sunlight. She feels warm, to see it. “That’s fantastic! The Minutemen could use more people like you.”

And just like that, the warmth fades. _No. Not like me. Anyone but me_.

“… you, uh… coming in?” He shrugs to the bridge. “You lived here, right? One of these places is your house. Right?”

“… the one with the geraniums out front,” she says, listlessly. “There’s a… a Mr Handy unit. Codsworth. He’s… probably tried to keep the place tidy while I’ve been… gone. He kept the hedges neat..." She clears her throat. "Just... just tell him you’re the new neighbours, and that I said it was okay for you to move in anywhere you like.”

“Hey, cool! You had a Mr Handy? He can help us rebuild, right?” A small pause. “Hey, uh… look, this is kind of awkward, but I don’t know your name.”

“… what? Oh. Right. Sorry.” And then there’s a spike of fear and grief because her name is the name she shared with _him_ and he’s _dead_ and _frozen_ in the _dark_ where it’s so _cold_ and _silent_ and she _closed the door and left him_ down there _all alone_ …

Her hand clenches in the power suit. Her fingers rubbing against each other, touching the silver she still wears.

“Miki. My name’s Miki.” Her last name, safe and secret and tucked against her heart, along with her husband’s ring.

“Miki. Japanese right?”

“… yeah.” She rolls her shoulders, and the metal shrieks a little, rough edges catching on smoother plates. “… look, I… I’m going to head back to the Red Rocket. You guys get settled. I’ll… I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” His eyes are sad with empathy again, and she feels so guilty for making him worry. “You get some sleep, Miki.”

“I will, Preston. Goodnight. Stay safe.”

“Goodnight.”

The dog stays at her heels, whining faintly as she turns away. As she trudges wearily back down the road. He dances out in front of her, barks, points his nose towards the old suburb.

“Not now, Dogmeat. I can’t.” Not while the shadows are long, and everything’s so dark. Not while the grief is so raw and fresh.

The lights are still on, some ancient nuclear generator still chugging away after all these years. She almost weeps at the irony. Or laughs. She can’t do either, but a strange sound chokes out of her regardless.

There’s a desk in here, someone’s old terminal blinking away, still logged in. A coat laid over a chair, mostly in one piece. Shelves full of tools. A yellowed, curling calendar. Oil cans. A pistol on the desk. The furthest thing from familiar.

Perfect.

She tugs at the controls, and the power armour opens up, spitting her out the back. She stumbles out, and wrinkles her nose. She smells of blood, and sweat, and piss - yes, she wet herself, when that monster roared down the road - and she knows they leave those details out of the comics for a reason. Heroes don’t piss themselves.

But she did. No surprise there.

“… Dogmeat. Guard.” He sits, alert and watchful, keeping her safe. The armour is blocking the doorway.

She grabs the coat, and the pistol, and climbs under the desk. Curling up on the peeling linoleum floor.

She hopes she never wakes up.

_… Shaun._

And then she hates herself for thinking like that.

She falls asleep, more guilty than exhausted.

And the night moves on without her.


	5. Survival

Her dreams are filled with chitters and skittering legs, things in the dark and the shadows that look at her and see not something to be afraid of but something to _eat_. She wakes with a yelp and bangs her head on the desk and almost shoots the dog, the gun held tight in shaking hands. But he was keeping her safe. He licks the blood from his muzzle and sits proudly over his kill. Sun-scarred skin stretched over bloated meat and _too many teeth_.

She retches into her elbow, trying not to lose what little is left in her stomach. The dog whines, apologetically, and drags the corpse outside. Slow and gradual, so she has plenty of time to see those blind, staring eyes, the scabby hide, the tufts of whiskers, the curved claws and jagged yellow teeth…

It's a while before she can crawl out of the office and pull herself together.

No sunlight. Just the stars and moon. The night's so still it must be early, early AM. Her stomach growls, reminding her that she hasn't had anything to eat but a cup of coffee that Codsworth made her... over 200 years ago. A bitter laugh escapes her, before she winces and rubs her stomach. She needs to eat. But... what?

She thinks about that creature's hideous flesh, and gags at the thought. Not eating that. No. Never.

A whispered word to Dogmeat, a plea for help, and he takes her up the hill to a small cluster of trees. Fruit trees. The fruit is... hideous. But it's growing from a living tree, so it can't be as bad as the meat from a mutated animal. The fruit's skin is tough, leathery, and she gnaws and gnaws until she finds a weak spot, tears, bites into the reddish flesh within. The taste is somewhere between grapefruit and cherry cough syrup, tart and artificial. They must be close to overripe, rotting in their own skins. Juices run red down her chin, as she takes another, and another. Just one more, and she’ll be done.

She digs in her nails to claw the leathery skin open faster, fast enough to match her hunger. A portion of the skin bulges, swells out, and then suddenly bursts, like a pustule, a boil.

“Oh god.”

Dogmeat whines in concern, watching as she doubles over and retches. She doesn't puke. She wishes she could, but she can't.

"... fuck." She wipes her mouth, face sticky from the juice. She'd kill for a shower.

The cold river isn't nearly as good as a hot shower, but the day's filth washes off her. She doesn't feel safe taking off the suit - who knows what kind of bugs or fish or _whatever_ are in this river? - but it doesn't matter. The suit soaks through, and the water washes away the piss and sweat and blood from yesterday. She might be chilled to the bone but she's going to be clean.

The machine on her wrist clicks strangely. It isn't until she's washing her face, getting rid of the last of the juice from her chin and the fragments of fruit-pulp from her teeth, that she realises: a Geiger counter. The water is _irradiated_. It was irradiated and she was _swimming_ in it, washing her _mouth_ out with it. In terror, she leaps backwards, trips, and falls on her ass in the mud. Filthy all over again.

"Fuck." Embarrassment, self-conscious self-pity, is a nice change from the grief. It chokes her up just the same, but it tastes different. Palatable.

She stumbles back to the Red Rocket. There's her Power Armour, and looking at it she wonders how she's still alive. If the claws of that monster had gone a little deeper to her chest, if it had just twisted her leg a little more...

That armour kept her alive. She needs to fix it. But she's not a mechanic. She's not even... anything. A former lawyer. A housewife. A mother.

... a mother without a child.

Shaun is waiting in Diamond City. She has to get to him. And if she’s going to get to him, she needs to be safe. She needs to stay alive.

Dogmeat's pretty handy at scrounging for supplies. With a hammer and a bench, she turns old number plates and pieces of wrecked cars into serviceable pieces of metal, curved to fit each segment that had been damaged. Duct tape - thank God for duct tape - holds it all together. Soon, she has a leg again, and the clawmarks on the chest have been beaten down, filled in with scrap, taped over. She even added a few extra spikes on her elbows and forearms, in case anything wants to get close enough to her.

Hideous. Goofy looking. Amateur hour. But it works.

She's tired. Thirsty. Hungry again, desperate for a Grand Slam with a coffee strong enough to knock her into next week. She wants a shower and a warm bed and _Nate_ and _Shaun_ and she wants yesterday back, before the bombs fell. But all she has is the armour, which closes around her, the readouts blinking to life to tell her where she needs to go... and just how ill-equipped she is to go there.

No ammo for the minigun, and about 20 rounds for the pistol. Only a couple of power cores. Armour that won't hold against a determined assault. A world that's broken and battered and for some fucking reason wants her dead. No, not just dead. Humiliated and mocked and broken, and _then_ dead.

" _Fuck_ you," she chokes out.

Dogmeat whines, ears drooping.

"... not you, boy." She sighs, and ruffles his ears. Gently. The suit is heavy, clumsy, but she won’t hurt him. That’s the last thing she wants. "... c'mon. Let's go help Preston's settlers."

The sunrise is weak. Anaemic. She makes good time, pleased by the low light. But it doesn't last. It gets far too bright, angrily so. As if all of this was her fault.

She focuses on the sound of the hydraulics, and her own breathing, to keep the silence at bay.

* * *

“… and when I mentioned that Mr Jahani had a predilection for survival, they decided to investigate, and you would not believe this, but there was a perfectly well-stocked cellar behind his house! It’s hard to say if any of the seeds will germinate after so long, but Mr Garvey seems quite confident that the supplies found within will be more than enough to turn Sanctuary Hills into a liveable suburb once again! Perhaps we'll even be able to market the produce, hmm? Fresh from Sanctuary Farms, ha ha!”

Codsworth’s chatter is something of a welcome balm. A sweet, familiar voice, even if the gossip is new and jarringly current. She keeps her head down, eating and drinking, trying not to look too desperate or ravenous in front of him. She needs to keep it together.

“How is everything, mum?” He hovers protectively. “I would hazard a guess that all the preservatives have ensured that the cakes have survived this long, but I cannot imagine they’d be any good for you. Fancy Lads, indeed, pfaugh.  Junk food is _hardly_ the fuel your body needs, mum.”

Even though they crunch when she bites into them, and make her jaw ache to chew, they’re practically mana from heaven. “But this is what we have right now. And it’s just what I need. Thanks.” She drains the tin of water, and hands it back to Codsworth.

“No need to thank me, mum! Just looking out for your wellbeing.” He pivots. “I’ll be back in a tick with some more water for you. Keeping up your hydration is important, particularly in this heat! And you can trust that all the water I bring you will be 100% radiation free! That’s a General Atomics guarantee!”

“I don’t need General Atomics to guarantee anything. Just you.” She gives a tired smile.

“Oh, mum!” A claw presses lightly to his chassis, the way a hand might rest over a heart, before he spins and hovers off with purpose and speed.

She sighs, sitting back on the concrete. She’d barely made it back before the last fusion core wore out. The mechanic - Sturges, that was his name - had offered to patch up all the damage for her. His speciality, he said. All she needed to do was help out around the place, help put up some walls, fix some roofs, and throw together some beds. Easy enough. She was happy to be busy. Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings, as her mother used to say. And if there was someone who knew what they were doing to fix up her armour, well, even better.

“Hey.”

She looks up at the shadow falling over her. “Preston. Everything alright?”

He slings his rifle from his shoulder, sliding down the wall of the house to sit beside her. “Going pretty good, actually. “Been a long, productive day for all of us. Thanks for helping out with that settlement.”

It doesn’t feel right, being thanked for killing people. Even if they were raiders. Being appreciated for putting bodies in the ground just feels... wrong. “Just putting the word out that you guys are still around.”

“Offering a helping hand goes a long way in a place like this.” He leans his arm on one knee, watching Sturges working on the Power Armour. “… I’m glad you came back, too.”

She feels a shiver crawl over her shoulders, a breath of cold air that might just come from the building behind the two of them. “… I don’t know if I’ll stay the night.”

“No, I get it.” He nods, turning his gaze to her. “It’s still too soon, right?”

“Right.”

“… we won’t touch it. We’ll check every other house, but… you go back in there when you’re ready. It’s your house, after all.”

“… thankyou.” She rubs her face, and looks down at her legs. Blue. She’s so… colourful. Everyone else is drab and washed out and… camouflaged. And here she is, bright blue and gold. So very much an outsider. A stranger in her home town.

“… guess you’ll be on your way to Diamond City soon, huh?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. First thing.” She rests her arm in her lap, flicking through the settings of her Pip-Boy until the map is illuminated. Thin green lines that showed old roads she used to drive. She taps the glass. “Somewhere here, I’m guessing?”

“Little further south.”

“Here?”

“Yup.”

She lets out a low, deep sigh. “I’m guessing it won’t be easy. Lots of monsters and giant bugs and raiders along the way?”

“Yyyeah.” Preston gives her a wry, apologetic smile. “Pretty much. Not an easy road. But sticking to the road’s your best bet. You’ll make it.”

The confidence in his voice makes her chuckle. “You think?”

“Yeah. You will.”

“… alright, well, if I do, I promise I’ll come back.” She rubs her face, fingers picking at the old scar out of habit.

Codsworth floats back, a fresh tin of water in his claw. “Here you are, mum! Mister Garvey, can I interest you in some freshly-purified water?”

“Absolutely, Codsworth, thanks.”

“Here you are, sir!”

She closes her eyes and drinks. Pretending the water doesn’t taste of copper, that it isn’t unpleasantly lukewarm. But everything does. It’s all copper and heat. The air, the sky, the food, the water. Everything she knows is gone, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“... hey, mind if I take one?”

She opens her eyes, and sees Preston eyeing the box of snack cakes. She laughs. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He takes a blue one. Bites into it. He doesn't even wince at the crunch, as though this was exactly what he expected it to do.

“Mum, is there anything else you need?”

The question makes her throat constrict, and her thumb rub at the underside of her ring finger, the touch of comforting silver. “… well, tell you what, Codsworth. Tomorrow, you and I can head out to Diamond City. Tonight, let’s… help out here as much as we can. Make a list of supplies that are needed, so we do some real progress when we get back.”

The robot bobs enthusiastically. “Excellent idea, mum! I’ll get started right away! Daylight's burning, after all!”

Preston watches Codsworth float away, licking crumbs from his lips. “He seems a little different to other Mr Handy units I’ve met. Bit more personality. I like him.”

“Yeah, he’s great.”

There is a moment of silence as they watch him start to lay into a tree. Sawdust flies to match the buzz of the circular saw. Branches come crashing down, and are promptly debarked, cut to precise lengths, and laid out on the street.

“… I think he missed his calling, though.”

“As what, a demolition derby robot?”

“Heh.”

She feels her lips curve into a smile, and holds it there as long as she can. Things are not okay. But here, sitting and eating stale cupcakes with a man who wants - and hopes - for nothing but the best. Things are not okay.

But for a moment, in the late afternoon sunshine, it feels like they just might get better.


	6. South of Concord

She does not belong here. With every step she takes, she realises that. The world is so quiet, like it’s holding its breath as she passes. She picks her way over the rubble of Concord, past the bodies of man and beast, of wrecked cars and broken storefronts, and everything is quiet except for her. Gravel and glass crunch under her shoes. The leather holster at her hip creaks with every step. The rough knapsack’s contents shift and jingle. She brings noise with her. Even though she carries a _silence_ deep in her heart, she knows that, for now, it’s contained. But all around her, everything is so still. She interrupts, intrudes.

This is not a world that likes intruders.

A flock of mangy crows flutter to the rooftops, and glare at her. No rough cries, just judgement for the disruption of their dinner. She steps over the minced raider corpse, wipes her shoe on the grass, and keeps walking.

A wind comes to ruffle her hair, to touch her face in an overly-familiar manner. _Who are you? Where did you come from?_ She sneezes, at the smell of dust and dryness, and the wind dies down, startled by the sound. Flees, like a scared child.

 _Stop it_. She rubs her temples. But it’s hard not to think like this. Hard not to give things that aren’t there a face, or a name. There’s something wrong with her.

The _silence_ throbs inside her. _I’m still here. Waiting._

She should have brought the gasmask.

Codsworth’s engine hums, and his chassis and limbs click as he follows her. More noise. Noise she’s grateful for, of course, but it only makes her feel safe enough to know she’s not without a friend, someone watching out for her. Not alone. Able to swallow down her fear and keep walking. He’s stopped talking, though. Idle chatter petered out once they’d passed the Red Rocket. He seems as baffled by and afraid of this new world as she is.

Follow the road, Preston said. So she does. It feels longer than she remembers. Back when she drove a Chrysus ’69, a sleek red rocket that just ate up the distance in style. Now she has her own two feet, and the asphalt is cracked and pitted and split and ruined. She has to take a running jump to get over some of the potholes, or climb down into the scrub and walk around. Stumbling and sweating and making progress so agonisingly slow.

There’s the diner, up ahead. Her stomach growls - _my kingdom for a hoagie_ \- but then she sees the folks with guns and her appetite is just gone.

“Oh dear,” Codsworth murmurs.

They see her. How could they not? She’s bright blue and standing there, gawping. Intruding on a standoff. This is not a world that likes intruders.

But for a moment, she feels calm. The same kind of calm before she takes the stand. This is a negotiation. She’s good at those. Very good. She made a career out of it. And those skills haven’t rusted, it seems, even after a year off and a baby and a neat suburban home. She talks the guns down. She steps into the diner. She gets the facts. She observes the participants and witnesses. A quick snap of a decision, a compromise reached. A mother to pay what her son is owed, a son to clean up and make amends, and a dealer to accept payment in good grace and not push anymore wares onto a client who cannot pay. No violence necessary.

“Oh, mum, that was splendid!”

She finds herself smiling, faintly. “… still got it.” And she’s learned a few things, besides. Drugs are still around, still addictive as ever. Jet, she needs to watch out for Jet. Can’t touch the stuff. Caps, they use bottlecaps for money here. She needs a whole lot more of them to get a worthwhile gun, but at least bullets for her pistol are cheap. Traders stop by the diner with regularity, so it might be a good way for Preston and the others to get supplies from here.

She pauses, staring down the road. “… what the fuck…”

“Mum! Language!”

“… sorry, Codsworth, but… that’s a… a two-headed cow…”

“It’s called a Brahmin, sweetie,” a tired-looking woman leans against the diner and lights a cigarette. She looks Miki over, eyes trailing down to the Pip-Boy. The two-headed cow moves off to graze behind the diner, unbothered by its heavy burden.

“… who are you?”

“Name’s Carla. I’m a trader.” She takes a drag. “You wanna do business?’

“… do you know how to get to Diamond City?”

Carla gestures with her cigarette. “South. Past Lexington and College Square. Don’t get too close to neither, ‘less you wanna get eaten or shot. You lookin’ t’ buy somethin’ or not? I got stuff from all over. Food, guns, scrap… anythin’ an’ everythin’.”

An idea strikes, fresh in the wake of her negotiations. “Maybe not me, but up north, past Concord? There’s a little settlement starting up, called Sanctuary. They don’t have a lot of money… caps, sorry, they don’t have a lot of caps, but they have plenty of timber and scrap metal to trade.”

The trader looks thoughtful. “Sounds too good to be true. You tryin’ t’ get me shot?”

“What? No. Look, they’re the Minutemen.”

“I heard they all got wiped out in Quincy.”

“No, not all of them. And they’re trying to get a fresh start. Can you help?”

“Ain’t nothin’ free out here, hun.” Carla finishes her cigarette, dropping the butt on the ground and grinding it under her foot. “But if they can pay, we can do business.”

They part ways. A surge of purpose smothers the _silence_ for a good long while, that warm feeling of having done good lingering inside her. She’s helped people today. She’s saved a couple of lives. She’s made it easier for the Minutemen to get on their feet.

Belatedly, she remembers Marcy’s bitter parting words. _You better not tell anyone we’re here_. But it’s one trader. One trader and her bizarre pack-animal. The Minutemen need supplies. Isolation isn’t going to help anyone. Preston wants to help people, to get the word out that they can still depend on them. They need to build and arm themselves and let their voices be heard.

It’ll be fine. She’s done good today, she’s sure of it.

* * *

Heart pounding. Hands shaking. There’s blood on Codsworth’s buzz saw and blade.

They might have been people once. They looked like people. Ragged clothes. Wide eyes. Withered skin. Hands, grasping hands, and teeth. Teeth and howling, growling voices. And now they’re corpses on the floor but they still stare at her. Silent snarls. Bleeding.

She keeps her gun up. Twitchy. Her breath and heartbeat so loud. Is that all of them?

The bodies stink. Ragged. Desiccated. Twisted. They look hungry and feral, even after she’s made sure they stopped moving.

“Mum, we should go. There could be more of these… _things_.”

She feels her breath escape her, the _silence_ taking away her old voice and giving her a new one. “Haaaaah.” A low animal sound, a moan of fear, and anguish. “Haaah. Haaah, haaah. _Haaah_.”

“… Mum? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

_The gunshot is ringing in her ears. Nate slumps back, his arms just flopping uselessly to his side. The gunshot. The man with the gun. The gunshot. Nate was shot, his body slumped in the pod. Nate’s blood. The gunshot. It’s ringing in her ears. Nate’s been dead. She’s screaming. Screaming. The gunshot._

“Mum?!”

“Haaaaah! … haaah…” She forces the silence back down, chokes back the sounds that aren’t hers. Forces herself to breathe.

The ugly wallpaper. The burned books. The way her tongue feels like a piece of meat; she bites it. There’s blood. Her blood. She’s alive. It hurts, but she’s here, here and now. The gun in her hand. The corpses. The bright sunshine on her back. Codsworth. Codsworth is watching. She has to keep it together.

“Haaaaa… haaa-haaaah-aaah’m _fine_ …”

“You don’t seem fine to me, mum. Did one of them bite you? Oh, heavens, we need to get you to a doctor right away!”

“They didn’t bite me.” The words tumble out, desperate to reassert themselves. To help reassert her. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” She takes a shaky sob of a breath, and reloads. Her hands are so unsteady. She drops a bullet. She drops two more.

Codsworth collects them for her. “… mum, it’s alright to be afraid… But we survived this. Deep, calming breaths, mum. Deep, calming breaths.”

She does as she’s told. The silence retreats, leaving one last groan on her lips before she seals it away. She can pull herself together. She can force her hands to be steady. Click. Reloaded. She doesn’t put the gun back in the holster this time. She keeps it in her hand.

“… c’mon, Codsworth.”

His voice is so cheerful it’s like he’s forgotten she was on the verge of howling not a moment ago. “Right behind you, mum.”

* * *

She checks her map as the shadows grow longer. The road’s so long, and she’s so tired. She doesn’t want to stop to eat, to drink, to rest, but her body is screaming for it. In the fractured shade of a creaking tree, she takes a seat, and forces herself to stop.

Codsworth fusses over her. Brings her more of that water he purified himself, and a small plastic container of mutfruit - that strange purple fruit actually has a name, and it’s as bizarre as it tastes - that he has carefully sliced and peeled the skin from. If it were possible to make sandwiches, she’s certain that he’d have cut the crusts off for her, at this point.

She murmurs her thanks, and eats. Stares down at the overpass, all choked with cars. The sun is setting and she hasn’t even crossed the river yet.

It’s so damn quiet.

She flicks the switches of the Pip-Boy, just for something to do. Investigating that odd device, and the clicks and electrical buzzing make her feel like she’s doing something. Like there’s a purpose to sitting here and waiting for the fatigue to ease.

And she almost falls flat on her ass.

Music? She rights herself and stares at the screen. Music. The radio plays, loud and clear. The beautiful strains of a piano. The silence clutches at her heart and makes it ache, but she doesn’t care. It’s so beautiful. Music.

“Ah.” Codsworth bobs closer, listening. “Chopin’s Nocturne, if I’m not mistaken. In E Flat Major, mum. Glorious. You know, that must mean Diamond City has a radio station, if the music is so clear. Nothing quite marks civilisation like the use of music.”

The song ends all too soon, sweet and fragile as a flower (she thinks of the geraniums around the house but… no. A daisy. A violet. Something less resilient. Something lost. Something gone forever, and only here in her memories). She sighs. And then she swipes her thumb over the glass, and frowns. “I have two signals. This isn’t Diamond City Radio, but this one is…” A turn of the dial. A burst of static.

_“-- a smart little girl with no heart, I have found me a wonderful guy…”_

“Doris Day!” Codsworth claps his limbs together. “Good gracious. I never thought I’d hear that marvellous voice again.” He bobs and hums along, his optics relaxing wide as he sways.

Miki stares out into the distance, her hand gripping so tightly to the dial that her knuckles show white. The billboard pinned to the side of the highway is peeling, but there’s still colour there. A bright advertisement for Nuka Cola. 200 years in the sun and it’s still so vivid.

Vivid. Bright and vivid in her mind she remembers the flower tucked in his buttonhole. _I hate this monkey suit_ , he said, as he takes her hand and pulls her onto the dance floor. _But at least you look stunning_.

She feels herself being torn in two. She can feel her body here and now, in the dust and dry and ruin, but in her mind’s eye she knows exactly where she is. When she danced with Nate to this song, self-conscious in a room full of uniforms and brass until she just kept her eyes on his and everything else disappeared. She was dancing with him. She was _happy_.

The silence rises up in her throat and starts to strangle her. She can’t breathe.

Nate kissed her and told her he loved her. She could have burst. She whispered it back, whispered his full name. The last name they were going to share as soon as this case was over and she could leave this awful job behind her and she felt so dizzy.

Dizzy. _Can’t breathe_. The air’s so dry that she can’t take any of it in. She feels another desperate ‘haaah’ building in her throat, this one close to a howl. Heart pounding, everything aches.

_“If you’ll excuse the expression I use, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love! With a wonderf--”_

_Click_.

An act of desperation, perhaps, or an involuntary spasm. Silence. The kind of silence that falls like a hammer. Where is she? She’s here. Sitting on a rock. Sweaty. Dressed in blue. There’s a broken overpass in front of her, covered in ruined cars.

She takes a shuddering breath. And another. A little calmer. The sound that threatened to emerge retreats, swallowed back up by the silence. _Another time_ , it seems to say. _We’ll save this one for later_.

 _Fuck no. You’re not going to get the best of me_.

 “… Mum? You’re looking a bit pale.” He offers another can of water.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she lies.

“Oh, mum, you’ve been through so much. As soon as we reach Diamond City, we’ll sit you down with a nice cup of tea.”

_I don’t want tea. I want Nate’s laughter and the way he used to kiss behind my ear. I want to trace his tattoos with my fingertips and kiss his jaw. I want to sneeze at his cologne when he uses too much. I want to hear him laugh at the way I sneeze. I want his arms around me. I want him back._

… Shaun. Nate’s gone, gone forever, but her baby - _their_ _baby_ \- is still out there. She needs to get to Diamond City.

She can sit down with a nice cup of tea and hold her baby boy once she gets there.

She tilts her head back to the sky, and breathes. Eyes closed. Listening to her own pulse and her breath. To the sound of the wind, leaves bustling over the broken road. To Codsworth’s engines, the ticking of his chassis. To the nothing that lay over this world like a heavy coat. She calms down, slowly, because while the _silence_ might kill her, the quiet is a balm.

… If she’d heard the whole song, she would have been completely fucked.

No music. She can’t risk falling apart again. The radio stays off.

By the time she opens her eyes again, the shadows are longer than she remembers. Nearly night.

“… getting dark out. Do you think we should keep going?”

“Hard to say, mum.” Codsworth gathers up the empty containers, putting them neatly away. “On the one hand, travelling through the night could be very dangerous. We don’t know what’s out there, and I rather much like to think we should see, don’t you agree?”

Monsters. Raiders. Gigantic bugs. Worse…? “… mmm.”

“On the other hand, it is very hard to know what would count as someplace safe, around here. Sleeping out in the open is not an option, but… I can’t think of any alternative.”

Lexington had been an unpleasant surprise. Those… zombies… had come rushing out the moment she’d even dared to approach a building. Maybe she could crawl into the shell of a rusted out car and set Codsworth to guard it… then again, what would happen if the unstable engine suddenly gave out and exploded and she…

_… No. Stop._

She rubs her face. “… let’s keep moving, then. Better than sitting and waiting for other options.”

“Quite right, mum. Let us soldier on!”

Perhaps his words were prophetic. In the shadow of the overpass, she finds the body of a soldier, long-dead. But she scavenges a few parts from where he had fallen. Above her, the wrecked vertibird creaks ominously. Watching her as she shakes bone fragments from the still-serviceable helmet.

And then, southeast, an explosion.

Not the bright, vivid flash of a car’s detonation, but… something smaller. More contained.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, mum. Should we investigate?”

Common sense would say stay away from things that are exploding. Carla said College Square was a good place to get shot or eaten. The _silence_ tells her to lie down and let night wash over her. But Miki fastens the helmet on tight. It fits perfectly.

“Let’s go.”


	7. Arcjet Systems

“Civilian in the perimeter! Check your fire!”

It’s more of those zombies, charging through the gap in the hastily-erected barricade. She catches one in the shoulder as she rounds the corner, and it staggers. Gives the figure in power armour enough time to mow the fucker down for good, with a blaze of red hot light that turns the zombie to a pile of glimmering ashes.

 “Friendlies!” She shouts. And shoots again, misses, swears, brings up both hands to hold the gun properly. Her next two shots don’t miss, and the withered, ragged body tumbles back, and does not rise again. Codsworth circles protectively, blade spinning, and she feels safe. Man on one side, robot on the other, and a gun in her hands.

Eventually, it all dies down.

She realises her hands are shaking ( _fuck_ zombies) as she lowers the gun. The air smells like something between an electrical storm and a barbeque; the thought is barely in her head and it almost makes her retch.

The man in power armour provides plenty of a distraction from the possibility of her emptying her stomach. “We appreciate the assistance, civilian. But what’s your business here?”

She finds her spine straightening up. His eyes are dark and suspicious, but there’s something about them that feels familiar. Compellingly so. “I’m… just trying to survive out here.” She holsters the pistol. Reaches under her helmet to smooth back some of her hair. “Like everyone else.”

“The way you charged in and engaged those ferals? I find that a bit difficult to believe. Are you from a local settlement?”

 _Ferals. Is that what they’re called?_ She files that away for later. The soldier - he must be a soldier - is giving her his utmost attention, and she couldn’t not do the same. “I’m from…” She holds up her arm, the one with the Pip Boy. “… from Vault 111.”

“You’re a Vault Dweller?” His significant eyebrows raise. So far, everyone else has made a point of looking at the suit she’s wearing. He’s the first person she’s met who has held her gaze so steadily. His gaze leaves hers, now, looking her over, noting the bright blue and yellow by the light of the flaming trashcan, before he gives a perfunctory nod. “Most people wouldn’t admit to such a thing. I appreciate your honesty.”

Her own brow furrows. _Dweller? Not really. I didn’t so much as ‘dwell’ in that place as…_ …she pushes the thought away. But as for why people wouldn’t admit it… _Is there something wrong with coming out of a Vault?_ But she holds her tongue. She knows from experience that asking questions of military types isn’t exactly the best way to make friends.

“If I appear suspicious, it’s because our mission here has been difficult.  Since the moment we arrived in the Commonwealth, we’ve been constantly under fire. If you want to continue pitching in, we could use an extra gun on our side.”

“I’m not much of a gun,” she murmurs, apologetically.

“I would disagree. Your marksmanship shows signs of some military training. Which is, for a civilian, particularly a Vault Dweller, somewhat significant. It will certainly give you an edge out here.”

Her throat catches. She doesn’t think she can answer, to talk about the time she and he spent at the gun range, before she got pregnant, before Shaun, before…

 _Shaun_.

She glances to Codsworth, to the zomb-- the _ferals_ on the ground, then down at her pistol. She needs to get to Diamond City. But the road’s been tough. Having a little military backup might be good. For all the military by and large can be a bunch of assholes… this guy has an honest face.

“Look, I’ll continue helping out, but…” She doesn’t recognise the symbol emblazoned on his chest, the winged sword and the gears. “But I feel like there’s a few things I need to know, first. Like, who you are, and who you represent.”

“Very well. I’m Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel. Over there is Scribe Haylen and Knight Rhys.”

It was her turn to raise both brows in surprise. Paladin? Knight? Scribe? What was this, the Dark Ages?

… well, it was pretty dark out.

“Brotherhood of Steel, huh?” She gives a quiet huff, bewildered by her own ignorance. “Every time I ask a question out here, I feel like I have a hundred more.”

“This world must seem very foreign to you.” Most military men wouldn’t have that level of sympathy in their voice. She appreciates it, strange as it is. “If you are able to assist us in communicating with our vessel at Boston Airport, I would be more than happy to answer any questions you might have about our organisation, and what we stand for.”

“Sounds like a fair trade, Paladin Danse.” He might be as stiff as the armour he was wearing, but she feels… safe. As safe as she did with Preston.

Soldiers. Good, dependable soldiers. Funny, how she keeps bumping into those.

* * *

 The air sizzles from the smell of Danse’s laser rifle, and melted plastic. She coughs in the fumes, but that’s not why she feels light-headed.

“Do you require a moment, civilian?” His voice is distorted by the helmet he wears.

“Yeah…” She leans against the bank of ruined computers, reloading just to give her hands something to do. “Give… give me a second.”

Robots. Honest-to-God robots. She nudges one with the toe of her boot, staring into the internal workings of something straight out of a sci-fi special. Monsters, zombies, and now robots. What’s next, a werewolf? A vampire? The Creature from the Black Lagoon?

“Of course.”

To her ears, he sounds terse, and she flinches. “… Paladin Danse, I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“There is no need to apologise.” He does not turn to face her, still peering through the next doorway in preparedness for another assault. “Your hesitation is only to be expected. This is a situation you were not prepared for.”

She glances around the room. Eight robots, all collapsed into smoking wrecks. She’d fired two shots, total, since the ambush was sprung, and both had missed. She could see the impact marks on the back wall.

“… Seems like there’s a lot I need to get used to out here.” She takes a deep breath, rubs her face. “… fuckin’ robots, though. This is… _bizarre_.”

Codsworth tuts quietly at the language as he dusts the shelves. Old habits really did die hard, if he was still cleaning up.

… was it habits? There was something wrong with him. Something wrong with her, too. 200 years and he had found a coping mechanism that worked. She, on the other hand…

 _Smother it. Keep it together_.

She kneels down and picks up the gun that the robot had dropped, the one that fired blue-white beams of scalding light. It’s not as heavy as she was expecting. It’s plastic, the pieces shiny and new and clean. It unnerves her, to be holding it. It doesn’t belong here. Everything out here is rusted and overgrown and dirty, leather and stone and metal and ruin. This is fresh. Clean. Perfect.

She aims it at the desk fan on the back wall, and squeezes the trigger. There’s no recoil, no smell of ozone, just a short flash of light, a lightning’s stab, and the fan now has a melted hole in the wire covering.

 _Fuck me_.

She lets it fall from her hands, and wipes her palms over the front of her suit. But the feeling of wrongness didn’t go away.

* * *

She’s separated from him by a wall of glass. But she can still hear him screaming. His voice is rough and his defiance is as loud as his pain. There are so many of them. Where did they all come from? How did they all know to come here right at this moment? They were dropping down out of the ceiling, pale as ghosts. Unrelenting.

Her hand hovers over the red button. She can’t do this. Danse is still in there.

He’s still in there.

“Mum! You need to do something!”

She’s out of ammo. There’s too many of them. And Paladin Danse is being swarmed. This is the only way.

She has to do this.

She presses down hard on the button.

The _silence_ grips her as the countdown falls. She holds her breath, but not because she wants to.

“Three.”

Danse staggers.

“Two.”

They pile on him, pummelling, bringing him to his knees, reaching to prise open his suit.

“One.”

Light. Heat. The roar of some vast and powerful beast. She’s forced back from the window, arm up to shield herself. But the images are burned into her retinas, of those ghostly figures turning to ash in an instant. And worse, worse still, the sight of her husband, standing there, holding Shaun, telling her it’s all going to be alright. That he loves her.

 _I did this. The world is burning. I did this. I did this_.

She stumbles back from the window, knocking over a shelf, a box, handful of tools and a strange machine, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t see. She needs the dark, or so the _silence_ compels her. _Get out of sight, be unseen, try your best to weep even though you can’t_. The pain, the ache of it, is so cold and heavy inside her chest. She wants to run, but she can’t. Her whole body is frozen. Cold and dark and…

“Haaah.” She can’t breathe. “ _Haaaah_.”

“Test firing completed.”

Codsworth hovers anxiously, peering through the window, one eye-stalk focused on her. “Mum? Mum, it’s alright. It’s over.”

 _It’s not over it won’t ever be over_.

“… efficiency rating of ninety. Six. Point. Seven. Per cent.” The computer finishes, helpfully.

From inside the chamber, there’s a low groan. It makes the silence retreat, a moment. Danse. Danse is still alive.

“ _Danse_.” She pushes herself forward, inhaling. Her steps stagger, at first, but soon she breaks into a jog, around the corner, into the room that smells of plastic fumes and hot metal. She _breathes_ , then coughs and gags.  “Oh my god, are you alright?” They’re surrounded by ash. The concrete floor is pitted and scarred like the wake of a volcanic eruption. She has to hold her sleeve up to her mouth and nose to breathe, but even so, she’s dizzied by the air down here.

“Got… cooked by those flames.” She can hear his breath hissing through his teeth. “But thanks to my power armour, I’m still in one piece.” He’s forcing out every word, crisp, military, refusing to be shaken. Even on his knees, one fist on the floor for balance. He’s in agony.

 _I’m sorry_ , the words refuse to leave her throat. The guilt is just crushing her.

“The important thing is, we’re still alive.” He grunts, pushes himself to his feet. Rolls his shoulders to test the motion of his movement, and a layer of black ash falls from him. “And we have a way to get to the transmitter. Let’s go.”

She reaches out to him, a motion to steady him, but pulls back at the last second. He’s radiating heat, impossible to touch. She can’t help him. But he doesn’t need help. He’s in pain but he refuses to be broken. He has something more important to do today than sit here and let a little agony slow him down.

In her mind’s eye sees Shaun in his cradle. His tiny nose, his eyes wide in wonder at the spinning mobile overhead. She aches. She aches, and the _silence_ makes her mute. _Shaun_. The world was burned to nothing but he’s still alive. Somewhere.

And here and now, Danse is alive. She didn’t kill him. He survived. And he’s heading for the elevator in determined, dogged steps.

He didn’t let it kill him.

She takes a deep breath and follows after him.

She won’t let it kill her, either.

* * *

When she hears thunder, she tilts her face back to the sky, wanting to see the familiar grey swell of low rainclouds. But instead, the world is a sickly green, and the air smells bitter.

A lightning bolt strikes nearby, and the device on her wrist chatters out a warning, like the creak of a falling tree branch moments before it falls.

“Careful, mum! Radiation!”

“What the f--?” She backs away from the door, clutching at herself in fear. “How is that… what is that… !?”

“Radiation storm,” Danse’s voice is still terse, tense. But he’s hiding his pain well. “A common occurrence out here. Storms will wash over from the Glowing Sea with regularity.”

Another flash of lightning. Another burst of static from her Pip-Boy. She gives a strangled cry of terror, and shrinks back into cover. But it’s not enough. She can feel her skin tingling - maybe she’s imagining it, she must be. But radiation. It’s dangerous. It’d kill her. Slowly and painfully just waste her away to nothing.

“Paladin Danse, I believe my mistress needs to find shelter immediately. She’s not prepared for this.”

“… Agreed.”

She feels a metal hand clasp around her arm, feels herself being pulled back towards the elevator. When the doors close, she almost sags with relief. Breathing, breathing, because she has the luxury to do so.

The dusty, junk-covered control room welcomes her back. She staggers to the steps and takes a weary seat. Setting down her gun, rubbing her hands together, swallowing down her unease. Hands. Her hands. Idle hands. She takes a shuddering breath.

The paladin watches her, inscrutable behind his helmet. “The storms do not typically last longer than an hour. You’ll be able to return to the surface and head on your way safely in no time at all.”

“Do people just…” She stares up at him. “Just live with this? Just accept that these storms happen?”

“By and large? Yes. Obviously, precautions are taken to avoid the radiation storms, but for some people, endurance is their only option.” He gestures to her Pip-Boy. “You are more prepared than most to avoid the dangers of radiation poisoning. That device should measure the levels of radiation in your bloodstream, and allow you to know when they reach a dangerous level.”

She sets her arm in her lap, flicks through the dials. There it is, a little readout in red and green to show her just how badly affected she is. Hardly at all, with more green than red. But there is red. And that red is more than enough to frighten her.

_It’s in my blood. It’s inside me._

She pulls off her helmet, rakes both hands through her hair. It’s all damp with sweat, and beaten down into an awkward shape; she ruffles it out, tugs and scratches at her scalp, and smooths it all back again.

“Three days ago,” she murmurs, “I was… The world was different. And then the bombs fell and now…” She takes a shuddering breath, fumbles in her bag for one of Codsworth’s tins of water. “Three days ago, it was… 200 years ago.”

“This must all be quite a shock to you.” He doesn’t question how, or why. He just… accepts it.

She’s glad. “Yeah.” She salutes him with the tin. “But at least I seem to be doing okay. Helped you out, didn’t I?”

“That you have, civilian.” Danse watches her drink, waits until she’s done, before he rolls his shoulders and sighs. “…it could have gone smoother. But mission accomplished.”

“Smoother.” She gives a snort of laughter, humourless. Tired. “Yeah. I won’t argue with you there. I’m sorry that I made things so difficult for you.”

“The sweep was sloppy. We were caught unprepared more than once, which is unacceptable.” He pauses, and the military edge in his voice softens somewhat. “However, your extra gun gave us the edge we needed. I’m not sure I could have accomplished the mission alone.”

“Codsworth ended up doing more work than I did.” She puts the empty tin away, and picks up her pistol. Such a rusty little thing. How was something as normal as this supposed to take out robots? Or zombies? Or worse, one of those big hulking leathery monsters? … she’d need to get better. And soon.  And maybe getting something _bigger_ would help. “But, yeah… We did work well as a team, didn’t we?”

“Agreed. It’s a refreshing change to work with a civilian who can follow orders properly.”

This time, her snort of laughter is a little more genuine. Was this the closest Danse was going to get to saying ‘thankyou’? These macho types were all the same. And yet…  He hadn’t been screaming at her. Hadn’t been rough or crude or demanding. It _had_ been teamwork.

“That being said, I believe we have two important matters to discuss. First of all, if you’ll hand me the Deep Range Transmitter, I’d like to compensate you for your assistance during this operation.”

She fumbles in her bag for the device. Such a simple little thing. A tiny box that held such power, such hope. “All yours. And you don’t need to compensate me, Danse.”

“I believe that I do.” He plucks the transmitter from her hand. His movements are stiff, and not just from the armour. The pain from the burns must still be very present, but he’s working through it. Brave of him. Dutiful. He spends a moment just staring at the box, before tapping a section of his armour, opening a small hatch and placing it inside. Everything in its rightful place.

She’s not expecting the way he unholsters his weapon, and holds it out to her.

“I think you’ll find this weapon useful. It’s my own personal modification of the standard Brotherhood Laser Rifle. May it serve you well in battle.”

She hesitates. “Don’t you need to keep it?”

“This isn’t the only weapon at my disposal.” He makes sure she holds it firmly before letting go, his arm falling stiffly back to his side. “Brotherhood soldiers always carry a backup.”

“Always be prepared,” she murmurs, as she examines the gun in closer detail. The good soldiers were always ready for anything. The best ones, in her opinion, were grown-up Boy Scouts.

She rises to her feet, holding the weapon secure in both hands. She felt, for a moment, like the first time grandpa had taught her to shoot. The way he’d handed her the gun and then stepped back, to see if she’d remembered all he’d told her, all he’d warned her about. There was that same self-conscious prickle on the back of her neck now as there was then.

There’s a dead robot - a _synth_ \- slumped over the desk on the other side of the room. She takes aim, and squeezes the trigger. No recoil, but there is a definite hum to the weapon, a rumble as the battery drains down from that single burst of red light, and a visceral click as the trigger locks back into safety once the shot is done. The robot’s body topples in one direction, the arm in the other. There’s a smell in the air she can’t quite place, but for the moment, it smells like… victory.

“… I could get used to this,” she murmurs, giving a faint smile.

There’s no reaction from the soldier. He’s impossible to read, in that suit of armour. But as she clips the gun to her belt, and picks up her helmet again, she sees what might have been an approving nod. “Now, as far as the second matter goes, I wanted to make you a proposal.”

She smooths her hair back so the helmet fits comfortably. The clasp clicking just tight enough that she feels it pinch the skin. Right over the scar. She rubs the back of her fingers, soothing away the pain, then brings the laser rifle back into her hands. “A proposal?”

“We had a lot thrown at us back there. Our op could have ended in disaster, but you kept your cool and handled it like a soldier.”

The _silence_ whispers to her, _But you’re not a soldier. Your husband was. You’re just the lawyer. Just the housewife_.

The gun is heavy in her hands. Warm, still, from the recent firing, and the paint a little melted from the rocket’s blast. The weight of it keeps her grounded in the here-and-now. It helps her ignore the silence, helps her keep it smothered. Keep it together. She runs a thumb over the neat lettering carved into the stock. _Righteous Authority_.

“There’s no doubt in my mind you’ve got what it takes.”

She cocks her head at him. “For what?”

He rolls his shoulders, but lets no grunt of pain escape him. Strictly business, mind on the job. “The way I see it, you’ve got a choice. You could spend the rest of your life wandering from place to place, trading an extra hand for a meagre reward. Or you could join the Brotherhood of Steel, and make your mark on the world. So, what do you say?”

For a moment, she just… pauses. Looks down at the gun in her hands. If anyone else had offered this, it would have felt like a bribe. A payoff. But this soldier had an honest face under the helmet. They’d only just met and now he was offering her a place in the military.

But what kind of military?

Make a mark on the world. The silence rolls - _you’ve already made quite a mark_ \- before she can smother it. She focuses on the gun, the weight of it. How comfortably it sits in her arms. A little heavy, but if she practiced, she’d be able to keep it steady for longer. Shoot straighter. Stay alive.

She has to find Shaun.

“Paladin Danse, I…” Her mouth feels dry. She swallows. “… I don’t know.”

The elevator dings, and Codsworth floats into the room. “Good news, mum! The storm has cleared! You should come out here, mum, and watch the sunrise. It’s really quite a sight!”

“Thankyou, Codsworth,” she smiles around the power armour, then focuses her gaze back on the eyes of Danse’s helmet. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t know if I’m… ready, for that kind of..”

He lifts a hand, forestalling any further explanation. “It’s a big decision, so I understand your hesitation. If you decide you want to become one of us, you know where we are.”

“The Cambridge Police Station.” She nods, as she makes for the elevator. “Right. I hope I see you again, Paladin Danse. Good luck to you.”

“And to you.” He watches her leave, as the elevator doors close.

Codsworth was right. It's a beautiful new day, all rose and peach.


	8. Diamond City

“And there they are!” The woman grins, her eyes red-rimmed and manic with glee, as she stands in triumph over the canvas unrolled on the ground. “Did your heart skip a beat, too?”

For a moment, Miki doesn’t answer. The bright waspish yellow of the trader’s hood has her attention, almost as much as the incredible selection of weaponry laid out before her. That bright, vivid colour is so out of place.  She has to shake herself back to the present, before she starts remembering cakes and honey and…  _Keep it together_. “… Yeah. Uh. Thanks. Wow. These look, uh…”

“They’re so beautiful,” the merchant breathes, practically panting in sheer excitement, “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah… I wish I could give some of them a good home, but… I think I only need the ammunition right now.” The gun she’d been given by Danse doesn’t exactly chew through ammunition, but the road to get here had been peppered with gigantic insects and rats, raiders, and… she didn’t even know what she’d been shooting at, just outside back there, but they were huge and green and the guards had been glad for her help.

She had been shooting a lot. And her aim was still shitty.

The merchant doesn’t seem phased at all, gleefully handing over the boxes of ammunition in exchange for the weapons Miki had scavenged from the bodies of the raiders and the… what were they, ogres? Probably. The big green men. Ogres works. “Oh, hello, babies! I’m gonna clean you up real nice, just you wait!”

“… Nice doing business with you, ma’am.”

“Name’s Cricket,” the merchant grins, rubbing her cheek against a shotgun in wide-eyed affection. It looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Or she’s popping pills like candy. Maybe both. “If you ever need a bigger gun, you try and find me, alright?”

“Sure thing, Cricket. Thanks.”

Miki leaves the merchant to chatter and coo to the new guns, and turns to face the entrance to Fenway Park. Or, as it is known now, Diamond City. It didn’t look too inviting, on the way here. Barbed wire and corrugated iron everywhere. Those guards on patrol in umpire gear, rifles in hand. Those humming, chugging machines that she had no other word for in her head but ‘turret’. And now, the main entrance is sealed tight.

This place could hold over thirty-seven thousand people, back then, but that was just to watch a game. How many people lived in here? How many homes could you squeeze into a baseball diamond that would make it a ‘city’?

“It’s been quite some time since you were here, mum.” Codsworth bobs philosophically.

“… yeah. Last game I saw was five years ag--“ She winces, and corrects herself. “… _two hundred_ and five years ago.” She lets her gaze drift, to the statue of the batter. She couldn’t remember his name; did that scare her, that she couldn’t remember something from what felt like less than a week ago? She couldn’t tell. “… The Sox were supposed to be playing that day, weren’t they?”

“Why, yes!” He seems quite pleased to think about it. “For the World Series! Tickets had been sold out for months! Would have been _quite_ the historic event to see them play, wouldn’t it? They might have even won!”

What little joy she finds in her memory is swiftly washed away. “… it _was_ historic. Just for a different reason.”

_A flash of light, the rumble of a wall of cloud and force…_

“Whaddya mean, you can’t open the gate?!” A woman’s angry voice drew Miki from her remembrance. “Stop playin’ around, Danny, I’m standing out here in the open, for cryin’ out loud!”

Through the intercom, a man replies, wearily and dutifully apologetic. “I got orders not to let you in, Ms Piper. I’m sorry.” A sigh, and he follows it up with the stock phrase of overburdened employees everywhere, “I’m just doing my job.”

The woman reels back, hands waving, mocking the man on the other end. “Ooh! Just doing your job? Protecting Diamond City means keepin’ me out, is that it?” She scoffs, and theatrically leans in to gesture at the intercom. “Ooh, look, it’s the scary reporter! Boo!”

“I’m sorry,” Danny sounds like he’d rather not be the one stuck having this conversation. “But Mayor MacDonough’s really steamed, Piper. Saying that article you wrote was all lies. The whole city’s in a tizzy.”

The woman gives a frustrated, through-grit-teeth scream, and gestures threateningly at intercom. “You open this gate right now, Danny Sullivan! I live here! You can’t just lock me out!”

There’s no reply on the other end.

She heaves a weary sigh. “… open up.”

Nothing.

Miki shifts awkwardly. Whether it is the motion or some sound, she manages to get Piper’s attention.

“Hey. Psst.” She beckons. “Hey. You. C’mere.”

Miki glances aside, hoping the woman is talking to Cricket, or some other merchant. Or anyone else waiting to get in. But no, here she is, out in the open. The only one that the woman in the red leather coat could possibly be talking to.

“You want into Diamond City, right?”

“Uh. Well, I just got here, but… yeah.”

“Shh.” Piper gestures with both hands, as though to pat the words down to silence. “Play along.” A wink, a grin, and then she speaks louder, leaning towards the intercom, though her tone is still casual and calm. “What was that? You said you’re a trader up from Quincy? You have enough supplies to keep the general store stocked for a whole month? Huh.”

“Mum,” Codsworth hovers like the angel on her shoulder. “This is _terribly_ dishonest.” He keeps his voice low, regardless.

Miki doesn’t want to argue with either of them. Shaun’s in Diamond City. She keeps her mouth shut.

“You hear that, Danny? You gonna open up the gate and let us in, or are you gonna be the one talking to crazy Myrna,” more hand gestures, fingers wiggling in fingerless gloves, “About losin’ out on all the supplies?”

“Geez!” The intercom sounds even wearier than ever. “Alright. No need to make it personal, Piper. Give me a minute.”

There’s the sound of hydraulics, old machinery creaking to life. Miki steps back, watching as the metal gate is raised, lifted up and away.

Piper grins, fixing her gloves. “Better head inside quick before ol’ Danny catches onto the bluff.”

“… what kind of city is this, anyway?”

“Oh, the ‘green jewel’? She’s a sight. Everyone who’s anyone from the Commonwealth is from here, settled here, or got kicked out of here.” The woman - the reporter - beams, proudly, even as she gestures to herself at the last part. “A big wall, some power, working plumbing, schools, some security goons are what make Diamond City the big monster it is. Heh. Love it or hate it. You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.” She turns and starts walking through the turnstiles. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t know if she should follow. The reporter seems like trouble; they always are. But seeing as they’re going in the same direction, Miki doesn’t have much choice.

So, of course, trouble’s waiting for them just inside.

“You devious, rabble-rousing slanderer! The… the level of dishonesty in that paper of yours! I’ll have that printer scrapped for parts!”

“Ooh, is that a statement, Mr McDonough? ‘Tyrant mayor shuts down the press’?”

Miki tries hard not to let her lip curl. The man sounds somewhere between travelling salesman and… and a carnie. His clothes are ragged and worn, like everyone else’s, but he seems… too clean. No dirt under his fingernails. She’s not sure why that bothers her so much. Piper had just said this place has plumbing. This man could afford to take a shower, keep his nails clean. And as a politician, he wasn’t likely to be grubbing around in the dirt. Well, not literally; politics is 80% metaphorical mud-flinging, in Miki’s well-informed opinion. Hell, she flung plenty of it on their behalf, back in the day. But something about this man irks her.

… there’s a plastic flower in his suit pocket. Bright and vivid. She stares at it.

“Why don’t we ask the newcomer?” Piper turns suddenly, and Miki is jolted from her thoughts by a light nudge to her arm. “Do you support the news? The Mayor’s threatening to throw free speech into the dumpster!”

“Uh.” She looks between the two, trying to catch up. “What newspaper are you talking about?”

“Mine. Publick Occurrences, and we’re the hard look at the truth.” There’s a kind of possessive baring to Piper’s teeth. She’s defended herself before, and she isn’t the type to back down. Those eyes are so steady. Unflinching. “So are you with us, or not?”

Miki holds the reporter’s gaze. _It’s been a while since someone gave me the third degree_ , she thinks. It’s hard not to respect the fighters, especially when they use the word ‘us’. “I’ve always believed in freedom of the press.” A small shrug, as though to shake off her own unease. _I didn’t come here to start a fight, or step into trouble. I just want to find Shaun_.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to bring you into this argument, miss. No, no no no…” He straightens his tie. “You look like… Diamond City material.”

She feels her contempt intensify, and can’t explain why. She puts one hand on her hip and tilts her head, studying the man in silence.

“Welcome!” He spreads his arms like a showman. “To the great green jewel of the Commonwealth. Safe. Happy. A fine place to come, spend your money, settle down. Don’t let this muckraker here tell you otherwise, alright?”

Her eyes narrow, fractionally. “What are you even arguing about, anyway?”

It’s Piper that answers. “What d’you think? Print lies, and everybody’s happy, but if you print the truth…”

The Mayor makes a conciliatory noise, like a horse clearing its throat, and waves Piper away, clearing her words from the air. “Was there anything in particular you came to our city for?”

Miki sets aside her dislike, for the moment. This is the man in charge. The one who knows everything that goes on in this town. The one who can help. “I’m trying to find someone.”

“Really? Who?”

“My son. Shaun. He’s… he’s less than a year old.” She can feel her voice crack, and quickly clenches her fists as she tries to remain composed. All these people are watching: Codsworth, Piper, the Mayor, all these guards just standing around…

“Wait, your son’s missing…?” For a moment, Miki is touched by the empathy she sees in the reporter’s eyes. But then it’s gone, as Piper gestures at the Mayor. “Oh, you hear that, McDonough? What’s Diamond City Security going to do to help this woman, huh? This isn’t the first missing person’s report to come through here, and now we’ve got an infant who’s been taken!”

_Not the first?_

“Don’t listen to her.” The Mayor smiles kindly at Miki. “While I’m afraid that our security team can’t follow every case that comes through, I’m confident you can find help here. Diamond City has every conceivable service known to man. One of our great citizens can surely find the time to help you.”

 _Which means you’re not going to_. Her dislike rises back in force. _You’re not even going to point me in the right direction._ _Typical weak-dick politician. Big words and nothing behind it_. “… yeah. I hope so.”

Piper doesn’t bother hiding her outrage. “This is ridiculous! Diamond City Security can’t spare _one_ officer to help? I want the truth, McDonough! What’s the _real_ reason security never investigates any kidnappings?!”

McDonough rounds on the reporter. “I’ve had enough of this, Piper. From now on, consider you and that little sister of yours on notice.”

“Yeah, keep talkin’, McDonough. That’s all you’re good for.”

He was already walking away, and an angry snort is about all he can manage for the last word.

 _The defence rests_ , Miki thinks, and rubs her face.

“Mm, a big Diamond City welcome, from the Mayor!” Piper’s arms seem constantly in motion, following her words with enthusiasm. “You feel honoured yet?”

“Not sure if that’s a good thing or not… Piper.”

The reporter smiles, but turns wry, shy, uneasy for a moment, and she fiddles with her gloves. “Look, I gotta go get settled in, but um… stop by my office later. I have an idea for an article you’d be perfect for.” She smiles, tips her hat, and heads further inside.

“Wait…” It’s a little too late. Miki breathes a sigh through her nose. Kidnappings. _Plural_. She has a prickle down the back of her neck that isn’t going away. Intuition, instinct, that something is very, very wrong.

“Mum, we’re finally here. Diamond City.” Codsworth pivots, patting her shoulder gently. “One step closer to Shaun.”

“… yeah.” _One step forward, two steps back_. The _silence_ clenches tight in her chest, but she tries to ignore it. She looks around, instead, at the entryway to the city. It doesn’t look like how she remembers it. All the paint is peeling. Rust, dust, and ruin. She blinks, letting her thoughts drift. Letting images from yesteryear (ancient history, to everyone but her) lay out across what was there. Seeing what was there no longer.

The smell of popcorn and beer. Cries advertising hotdogs and peanuts. The crack of the bat hitting the ball, the scuff of shoes on the dirt. The bright uniforms. The crisp white lines painted into the rich green. The voices and faces of thousands of people, all brought together for one single thing.

 _Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd_ …

“… mum? Are you ready to go inside?” Codsworth drifted towards the gate. “We’ll sit you down and get you that cup of tea. And you never know, mum. They might have a bakery here!” His mechanical voice drops to a mutter, “We have to get you something better than Fancy Lads. Scones, that’s what we need. Tea and scones, something _proper_ and decent…”

The jingle haunts her. The _silence_ locks her throat, and does not let her hum along.  Just letting that old familiar tune drift in her head like… like a plastic bag blown around in an empty stadium. Or like a sad, lonely ghost.

 _… it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out, at the old ball game_.

* * *

She’s expecting a city. But she steps through and the word that comes to mind is ‘slum’. A collection of people living in houses cobbled together in desperation and defiance against the world, squatting over the green that once only celebrity athletes could walk. With the song still scraping at her nerves, it’s jarring and dissonant to see. The present-that-was and the present-that-is battering and fighting in her memory and mind’s eye at the same time.

She leans against the railing and fights against the sudden vertigo. “Haa- _ah_.” It takes a moment, a long moment with several deep breaths, but eventually she can move again. “Haah.”

There’s Publick Occurences, with a ‘k’. There’s a church, entirely non-denominational. There’s a marketplace. She turns as she reaches the ‘road’, looking up and back at the stadium walls. The Mayor’s office is up there in the announcer’s booth. Finer-looking houses in the stands. Slowly-turning windmills around the lip of the stadium, connected to the giant panels of lights that she remembers. Miki turns, slowly, slack-jawed as she tries to take it all in. She bumps against someone.

“Sorr--“

“Oh, look, another one of the poor and stupid of Diamond City come begging for table scraps?”

The apology doesn’t just die on her lips, it takes the rest of her brain down with it. Miki blinks at the woman. “The… poor and stupid?”

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know.” The woman sniffs, one hand reaching up to brush at her golden hair, primping what looks like a brand new haircut. “There’s two types of people in this town: the ones living in the stands, and everyone beneath us.” Her eyes narrow. “I know everyone in the stands, and that _doesn’t_ include you.”

“… well, I just got here, and…”

“And you want a handout, is that it?” She sighs wearily, checking her pockets. “Here, a few caps. But that’s all the charity I can spare. Was there anything else, or are you done bothering me?”

Dumbfounded, Miki can only stand there and blink.

“I thought not,” the woman turns and walks away.

“… what a dreadfully unpleasant individual,” Codsworth mutters, as he drifts up alongside Miki.

Miki just stares at the battered bottlecaps in her hand, the flush of indignant anger rising in her cheeks far too late for it to mean anything. She stuffs the meagre handful of currency into her backpack, and fumes. “Sure says a lot when you act like an elitist bitch in a place like this. Queen of the fuckin’ trash heap.”

“Mum, _language_.”

She grunts in reply, and turns to head into the city. No longer full of awe. The hope in her heart has to play second fiddle to the cynic’s eye.

And the cynic is proved right, as time passes in the Great Green Jewel. The guards don’t help her. They’re on-duty, and so busy with their catcher-gear patrol that they can’t even spare a moment to point her in the right direction. People are busy, busy scraping out a living, and they don’t have time for her. They barely even want to speak to her. She’s just some other stranger, interrupting the routine of their lives.

At Codsworth’s suggestion, she starts to spend some time earning a little goodwill. She runs some deliveries. She buys drinks. She does a run to a hardware store for paint, comes back equal parts bloody and shaken from what she’d found. But the night falls swift and complete and she still has nothing. It’s a trend, she notices, amongst the people, the merchants, the guards, everyone here. They might start to chat, but the moment she says the word ‘missing’ or ‘kidnapped’ or ‘taken’, they just hunch their shoulders and shake their heads and move on. _Sorry, lady, don’t know anything. Sorry, can’t help you. Sorry, I got somewhere to be_.

It isn’t just a matter of being busy, or being uninclined to help a stranger. They’re terrified.

She sits on a bench, and tips water from her boot. Her skin tingles unpleasantly from the effects of the irradiated pond, though whether it’s because it’s actually getting worse or because she knows now what the clicking means, she can’t tell. She’ll stop in for a checkup soon, very soon (and with Doctor Sun, rhymes with ‘moon’, she’d heard him complaining to another resident and was going to make certain she didn’t make the same mistake), but right now she’s utterly exhausted.

She tilts her head back, and stares up at the sky above. So many stars. Old mariners used to find their way by them, didn’t they? She wishes she had that same kind of knowledge.

_Point me to Shaun. Please._

She can hear people moving around her, hear the mayor calling for attention. The people are all gathering out here, to listen, so she listens too, listens to the Mayor give his speech by the Wall. The Green Giant. It’s still there, but now it’s something of a god to these people. A wall to keep them safe. To keep the rest of the world out.

“I. Am not. A synth.”

She makes sure Codsworth isn’t close enough to eavesdrop, then buries her head in her hands and whispers a quiet ‘fuck me, fuck this, fuck it double’. _Where_ is Shaun? And how is she supposed to find him if no-one wants to talk to her? This entire city is closed up; the door out front should have been hint enough of what she’d find inside. People are too _scared_ to talk.

How many people going missing does it take, before people stop talking? One or two would make front page news, but --

“God bless this city! God bless the wall!”

… the news. The reporter, Piper, she’ll talk. She might be the only one in the city who would. Miki stands, just in time to disperse with the rest of the crowd.

Publick Occurrences. She’d found crumpled and trampled copies of the paper all over Diamond City; one of the cleaner ones she’d scooped up as a curiosity. God knew why, but now she takes it out, and looks it over, by the light of a humming lightbulb strung against a wall.

Miki reads, losing herself in the story. A story about 60 years ago - holy _fuck_ , it’s _2287_ \- about the trust that was broken and the fear that became so utterly real among a people that thought they were safe. She remembers the Vault-Tec representative that came to her door, promising safety for herself and her family, and for a gut-wrenching moment, she feels as afraid as the people here must have felt. Must still feel.

It may just be a piece of paper, but there is power in these words. Piper was thorough. Careful. She presented the facts with just the right amount of emotional resonance. She’ll be the right kind of person to talk to. Hopefully, her office was still open after dark.

* * *

When Piper speaks, her hands are everywhere. Waves and wiggles of the fingers, pointing and gesturing to make her point, sweeping the whole world up in what she has to say. But when her hands are occupied with paper and pen, the reporter’s restless energy comes out in her face, in her eyebrows rising and falling, in the way her lips purse, the way the questions come thick and fast, and in the way her eyes just seem to burn.

She hasn’t seen that kind of fervour in a long time.

The reporter had made Miki flinch when she’d asked for her ‘life story in print’. But it had been so easy to just… talk. Piper makes her feel at ease, even as Miki feels the _silence_ gripping at her lungs, ready to rob her of breath at any moment. But it doesn’t. She can remember the cold, and the serene faces of those in lab coats around her. She can speak of those. It isn’t as painful remembering them.

“Oh my god,” Piper grins, scribbling herself a headline. “’The Woman Out of Time’.”

The choice of words make Miki blink. That’s what Mama Murphy had called her, the exact phrase. _Superheroes_ , she thinks, and the thought distracts the _silence_.

That, and the way that Piper artfully changes the topic. The Commonwealth. How had it changed? They sit there on the couch, Piper scribbling notes as Miki expands on the things that struck her on the way here (the cracked roads, the ruined cars, the crumbled highway, the stars - my god, the stars, there are _so many_ ) and the things that she wasn’t ready for (the gigantic bugs, the rats the size of dogs, the hairless snarling dogs, the _big_ green dogs and the bigger green men, oh, don’t forget those ferals that lunged at her) and little things that keep her breathing, keep her going (colour, fresh air, old snack cakes). Codsworth gets an honourable mention, the robot that waited for her faithfully, that kept the garden in as good a shape as the apocalypse allowed. Miki even finds herself doing into a five minute rant about baseball, because Moe’s little sales pitch (pun intended) had irritated her beyond belief. It’s nice to see Piper’s eyes light up and to hear her laugh. It’s an infectious sound, and makes Miki smile, as well as causing the _silence_ sulk back inside her and leave her alone.

And all the while Piper’s eyes gleam as she writes, her smile honest and genuine, or dipping low in sympathy and understanding. Every now and then she’ll tilt her head and ask a question, or give a prompt, wanting to hear more from ‘Blue’, an outside perspective like no-one had ever heard before.

‘Blue’, a safe little name that Miki wishes she’d thought of herself, a name that sums her up so well, better than the reporter could ever know. Or maybe she does know, maybe she spotted with those keen eyes of hers already.

_Keep it together._

“Now, I know you’re looking for your son. Shaun.” The reporter sounds out the name, carefully, respectfully. But even so, Miki can’t quite help the flinch. It hurts, not holding her baby. “Do you suspect the Institute was involved in the kidnapping?”

‘The Synthetic Truth’, the story in the hand-printed paper, had mentioned the kidnappings, the artificial people. Miki remembers the white suit of the woman that took Shaun. A clean-room suit. Plastic and clean, like the guns those robots had used back at Arcjet Systems. “I don’t know. Maybe.” It would be nice to have someone to blame. Someone to hate. Some actual direction, somewhere to run to, where Shaun would be waiting for her.

Piper pulls an apologetic face, her pen stilling for a moment. “Not everything that goes wrong in the Commonwealth is because of the Institute. But there’s always a chance. That’s why I’m asking.”

“… I think I’ve seen some of their ‘synths’. White plastic on a metal skeleton.” The ones that took Shaun were people. Real people. … weren’t they?

“That’s only the first kind, Blue. You see groups of those in the Commonwealth, killing people and scavenging what’s left. I reported on University Point a while back. Whole town got cleaned out.” Her eyes drop to the floor, remembering.

_The gunshot echoes loud in the narrow space. Shaun is crying. Her own scream fills the pod._

“The second type of synth is the real deal. With skin, blood, warm smiles and guilty glances just like a good old-fashioned human. So… “ She raises her gaze, rolls her shoulder, twirls her pen before setting it back against the paper, “Do you think they could be involved? The Institute, or one of their agents?”

_The gunshot. The face that moves close enough to her that his breath leaves white on the glass. It’s his gun. Behind him, there’s her husband, half his head blown off. The man with the gun stares her down. He smirks. He holds her gaze, and he smirks._

Miki forces herself to return to the now, to the couch and the question, to the cozy apartment that smells of ink and candy, lit by warm lightbulbs, filled with the hum of a generator and the faint sound of noise from outside. The people. The city. Here and now. Not the dark, not the cold.

“Sure sounds like it might be.”

“Not even a baby is safe from them.” Piper’s brows furrow ferociously, as she writes a few more notes. “And people wonder why I just can’t look the other way.”

Miki does her best to focus on the anger in the reporter’s voice. Anger is good. Anger will help her stay strong. Anything less than that and the _silence_ will just roll in and smother her. The Institute. They’ve been taking people. They probably took her baby. They took Shaun.

 _I’m going to get him back_.

“For the last part of our interview,” Piper lowers the notebook, staring right into Miki’s eyes. “I’d like to do something different. I want you to make a statement to Diamond City directly.”

 _How about ‘help me, you stupid fuckers’?_ She presses her lips together.

“The threat of kidnapping is all but ignored in the Commonwealth. Everyone wants to pretend it doesn’t happen. What would you say to someone out there who has lost a loved one, but might be too scared or too numb to the world to look for them?”

“Wait, what?” She squints, incredulous. “People lose family and friends and they just…  let it slide? No-one does anything?” She thought the terrified people in Diamond City was bad, but… apathy? Really?

“Well, yeah.” Piper shrugs, but there’s a bitter twist to her lips. “You grow up in the Commonwealth, and eventually someone is going to get taken. Maybe not someone you know, but someone. And people just say ‘well, it could have been worse, could have been killed by raider attacks, or super mutants, or feral ghouls’. They just give up.”

Miki feels her lip curl into a sneer. Incensed. How could she ignore Shaun? How could she possibly pretend her husband hadn’t died five feet in front of her, that her own son, her own flesh and blood, was taken from her, that they left her down there in the cold and in the dark and just… No, she was angry. Angry at them. Angry at anyone who never gave a damn. _Fight! Fight them! Fight this!_

“So, I want my readers to hear what keeps you going. Maybe they’ll find a little inspiration. Now, what would you like to say?”

She clenches her fists, and for a moment she remembers the flight from Sanctuary, her husband’s voice ringing in her ears. _Goodbye, honey. We love you_. The way it made her collapse and howl in the dirt. How she wanted to stay down, never get up again. But Shaun, her baby, his laughter on the tape. His memory seared into her brain. His warmth, that smell of milk and powder and fresh clean clothes. The way he reached for the mobile. Shaun. Her baby. Her _baby_.

She licks her lips, and places each word carefully. “No matter how much you want to give up, don’t.” Every single one matters, not just to the paper, to the people who will read it, but to her. “You have to have hope that you’ll see them again.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. _Your son is alive_. Mama Murphy’s words. And god, didn’t that just make her heart soar. But it’s been 200 years between sleeping and waking… “Or at least, that you’ll know the truth.” It hurts, it _hurts_ to imagine a dead end. So she refuses to do so. The ring on her finger and the ring against her heart are witness: _I’ll find him. I’ll get him back. I promise_.

Piper nods, looking proudly at her. “A strong note to end on, Blue. Thanks. It’s gonna take some time to put all this together, but I think your story is going to give Diamond City plenty to talk about.”

Talking has wrung her out. Utterly. There is blood under her fingernails, her Vault suit is still damp from the swim in the reservoir, and that’s just to start. It’s been a full day and now she just wants to rest; as much as she wants to keep chasing after Shaun, she can’t do it if she can barely keep her eyes open. _I’m sorry, Shaun, but mama needs to sleep. I’ll come find you in the morning. I’ll come find you. I’ll be coming at a run_. “You’re welcome. Um. Look, do you know anywhere I can crash for the night?”

“I’d offer you the couch, Blue, but you probably won’t get much sleep.” Piper gestures, pen in hand, to the old printing press. “She’ll start making a racket once I get the story in order. But uh, hey, The Dugout has plenty of beds. Just don’t let Vadim sell you any of that rotgut or you’ll wake up with your head feeling like it’s been trampled by a brahmin.” She gives a bright smile, those eyes playful.

“Heh. Speaking from personal experience?” She remembers her college years. She’s out of practice. And very much on a wagon far, far away.

“Sadly, yes. So learn from my mistake, Blue,” a warning finger is shaken. “Trust me. Hey, uh, could I ask a favour?”

“Mm?” She’s rising, but now she half-turns, facing the reporter again.

“Come see me tomorrow. I think I might be able to introduce you to someone who can help you find Shaun.”

“That would be great. And, heh, sounds less like a favour for you and more one for me.”

“Bit of both, maybe? You sleep well, Blue.” Piper laughs, and waves.

A step in the right direction. Several steps. God bless Piper. God bless the free press. Miki smiles, taps a light salute to the brim of her helmet, then heads out.

Codsworth meets her outside, excitedly waving her over. “Look, mum! I managed to get a good deal for the supplies Mr Garvey needed.” He lowers his voice, a stage-whisper. “Seems the woman at Diamond City Surplus doesn’t like synths, but she was more than willing to make a trade with a good, honest machine.”

If he could beam, Miki is certain he would be doing just that. She gives a wry smile back, and interrupts gently before he can wax lyrical on General Atomics. “Good to hear it, Codsworth. Good work.” A yawn lunges out of her mouth before she could stop it. “… sorry. Sorry, I’m just…”

“Oh, mum, I’m so sorry! We didn’t get you that cup of tea! I feel just terrible for neglecting you like this.” He bobs fretfully. “What must you think of me?!”

“I think,” she holds up a hand, “You did a great job.” She sighs. “It’s been a long day. But… I think I know where to start looking for Shaun.”

“So, Ms Wright helped you? How splendid!”

“Yeah. And tomorrow, she might just help me some more. For now, I just need… sleep.”

“And a good meal, mum.” He adds, tilting an optic nodule at her in a meaningful way.

She snorts at his fretting. “Alright, yes, I’ll eat something.” Not meat, though. She doesn’t think she could stomach anything like what she’d seen being hacked up at Choice Chops. Miki glances across from Piper’s office towards the stand, and wrinkles her nose. She can smell the place from here. _People can’t afford to be picky_ , Polly had snapped. Miki disagreed.

“Very good, mum. I’m glad to hear it. A good meal, a good sleep, and you’ll be ready to find Shaun!”

“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath, unable to let her gaze meet Codsworth’s optics. “This is going to be a lot to get back to Sanctuary Hills.” Her chest contracts at the thought of walking away, of backtracking when she’s already come so far. She just wants to keep moving forward. “… hey. Codsworth? Can I ask a favour?”

“Of course, mum! Anything!”

She gives him a faintly-miserable smile, strained around the edges. “I think… Preston really needs this stuff. Can you get it back to him? I mean, by yourself?”

“Oh, mum, I… I don’t like the idea of leaving you all alone out here.” He places a claw on her arm.

“And I don’t like it either.” She rests a hand on his claw, squeezes gently. “But if I’m going to find Shaun, I…” She takes a deep breath. “I can’t waste any time. I have to find him as soon as possible. Look, Codsworth, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it. I trust you. I know you can make it.”

“Of course I can make it, mum!” He sounds very distressed. “But it would be very neglectful of me to leave you! … but if you insist, mum, then I suppose it would be the best course of action. Mr Garvey needs these supplies…”

The silence locks her throat. She can’t speak.

“… but I will be waiting for you!” He nudges her, gently. “You must bring young Shaun back to Sanctuary Hills, and we can tidy up the house, and be together as a family again! … oh, um… I’m sorry, mum, I didn’t mean to…”

She turns away and rubs her face. “Yeah, Codsworth, I know. Just… go help Preston, okay? I promise I’ll be back. I promise.” So many promises. Is she going to end up making one she can’t keep? Or worse, that she breaks? She feels broken enough already.

 _Keep. It. Together_.

Codsworth mumbles more plaintive, concerned sentiments, and squeezes her hand one more time before he loads up, bracing himself. “Right! Off I go, then. I’ll have the Minutemen rallied by the time you get back. The old neighbourhood will be a worthwhile sight when you come visit. I’ll make you proud, mum!”

That earns a faint smile, even through the threatening shakes. “You already have, Codsworth. But I look forward to being even prouder.”

He looks so odd, tugging that wonky-wheeled cart, whistling La Marseillaise in a way to chase off his fears. Clever machine. He’ll make it, she knows he will. The road will be clearer on the way out than it was on the way in. He has his cutter and his flamer. He’s made of metal. He knows the way home. He’ll be fine.

He will. Will she?

Miki doesn’t remember walking to The Dugout, and has only a vague recollection of stepping inside. She clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, weaves her hands together to hide her shaking hands. She pays for her room and meal with the ‘handout’ she got from the Codman bitch, stumbles awkwardly into the room, shuts and locks the door. She eats, in the dark, not paying attention to what it is she’s shovelling down, hopes it isn’t meat. The water tastes coppery. She drinks until it is gone, and doesn’t think about Shang’s comment about the live grenade until afterwards; was the copper from the pipes? Or the remains of the last fellow who went down to try and clear out Diamond City Reservoir?

“Fuck,” she whispers to the universe. “Stop. Just leave me _alone_.”

Alone. Like she was right now. In a city 200 years too far for her to ever call it home. Everyone she knows is dead… except for the one she just sent away.

_Alone? Whose fault is that?_

“Shut the _fuck_ _up_.”

She kicks off her boots, drops helmet and bag down on the floor beside them. The mattress smells, the sheets are frayed and old, but she curls up, shuddering, shivering.

_Don’t give up. No matter what, don’t give up._

She dozes for while. Wakes, finds herself reaching to the other side of the bed, the empty half. Empty. It’ll never be filled again. She chokes back a scream, curls up in a ball, and shudders herself back into a troubled doze once again.

_You have to have hope._

She tastes blood. She’d bitten the inside of her cheek, and her tongue flicks and prods at the loose scrap of flesh still anchored to her mouth.

_Keep it together._

“Shaun,” she whimpers, before the _silence_ finally lets her sleep.


	9. Goodneighbor

The reporter had poured a cup of coffee - God, it was sweet, Miki had almost choked - and spoken cheerfully about a friend of hers who had been able to help. But of course, nothing was as simple as just going and paying someone a visit. The neon sign had held Miki’s eyes like a moth; the detective who was named by it was out on a case. Missing in action.

So here they are, the two of them, blue Vault suit and ratty red leather coat, picking through the ruins towards Goodneighbor. The last place Detective Valentine was headed.

It is so quiet. No sounds of traffic, or televisions and radios blaring, or people in the streets. Everything is all brown and grey, rust and broken concrete and sun-bleached posterboard, cars that would never run again. Even Piper has nothing to say, giving Miki only a sympathetic look before she presses on through the mess, leading the way through the shells of buildings Miki used to know, in the city Miki used to know.

She tries not to think about it. Tries to ignore the rubble and the ruin. Shaun. She needs to find her son. The silence wraps around her like a blanket, and her hands are sweaty. She lowers her rifle - a nice little piece she picked up in Diamond City that had reminded her of the one at her father-in-law’s lodge - and wipes her hands on the legs of her suit. A hot damn day. They’d left Diamond City with pumpkins in their doorways and paper ghosts tacked to walls, but it doesn’t feel like Halloween at all.

This doesn’t feel like home at all.

Two hundred years. She swallows, and follows the reporter. Two hundred years. Buildings were still standing. People were still around, and they still celebrated Halloween. They bartered and cooked and worried about clothes from Fallon’s and listened to the radio. Life went on. For better or worse, life went on. But it wasn’t home anymore. It can’t be. Not for her.

_I’m coming, Shaun._

Piper raises a hand, then hunkers down low. Miki crouches as well, trying to listen to the urgently whispered orders. Piper’s fingers were flicking again, birdlike motions to point up towards a crumbling overpass, a distant gap between the buildings, a burning oil barrel, a red brick line in the road…

Red. Red bright brick. The colour stands out so stark and crisp amongst all the dust and refuse. Miki remembers sitting and having a picnic and watching the tourists following the road, the guides chirping out the history of each and every building, talking about the days when basic human rights were something people had to fight and die for, those poor people in the past. She and Nate had given matching snorts of derision: yeah, the bad old days, when civil rights didn’t exist, because they existed _now_ for each and every--

Something clatters. Loud. Then it’s quiet again.

Miki lifts her head, past and present tearing from her vision to show her she’s alone. The reporter has dashed ahead, leaving her alone. There’s no sign of her, not even the red of her coat. Miki swallows, tightening her grip around the rifle, and carefully edges forward. _Piper_ , she mouths, barely daring to say the word aloud. To speak into the silence feels dangerous. The whisper feels obscenely loud in her own ears, regardless. _Piper. Piper!_

No answer.

Miki moves as quietly as she’s able, shifting forward with rifle raised. How hard could it be to spot something red amongst the grey and brown? The Freedom Trail had certainly caught her attention. Piper wouldn’t be too far. Step by step, feeling a prickle at the back of her neck, heart rate climbing, skin crawling. Alone and in unfamiliar territory.

She pauses, hearing movement, and waits. _Piper?_

No. It’s something shrivelled and starving. Fangs and feral eyes. On  ragged paws it turns, then barrels down the streets towards her, salivating, snarling, eyes fixed on her throat.

She pulls the trigger on reflex, and the world explodes into sound --

                                                         -- _sound like the end of the world, the dropping of a bomb_ \--

\-- and the dog collapses with half its head blown off, legs kicking in the spasms of near-death.

She’s too electrified to feel proud she still remembers how to shoot a rifle. The shot is ringing in her ears, and it’s picking up more and more echoes. And then something that certainly isn’t an echo at all. Snarls, movements, raspy breathing. She dashes around a yellowed wreck of a minibus and covers her mouth with her hand, catching glimpses of withered limbs and tattered clothes.

 _Haah. No no no haaah no no haaaaaaah no_.

She glances back, the barest peek, and she sees them. Four of them, covered in mold and gravedirt, hungrily converging on the dead dog. It hasn’t even stopped twitching, and they’re tearing into it with clawed hands, viciously wrenching off limbs and head, spilling blood and viscera all over the road.

_Oh god. Haaaah. No no no._

How long before they find her?

She has two shots before she needs to reload. There are at least four of those ghouls. She knows how fast they are. She knows how hungry they are.

_Haaaah. Keep it togethaaaaahh…_

She’s shaking.

_Piper, where **are** you?_

There’s another bus. Quiet, quiet, move towards it.

_Piper? Haaah. Is that you?_

The footsteps are too heavy. The smell is foul, rotting flesh and month-old shit. It’s not Piper.

Behind her, the snarls are changing from ‘feasting’ to ‘alert and sniffing’.

She’s bright blue. She stands out amongst the wreck and ruin.

_Haaah!_

Something roars. The ground shakes. The ferals hiss and charge. She’s frozen for only a moment before she bolts like a startled rabbit.

The world is a blur of motion. There’s something here, something huge and green, and it’s laying into the ghouls. An opportunity. But there’s more of them, calling an alarm, and she feels bullets peppering the ground at her feet. These ones are aiming for her, her bright blue, not the bloody ghouls. No time to shoot, she just runs, scrambling past the crumbling barricades.

“Blue!”

_Piper!_

The reporter waves from behind the corner, then raises her pistol and takes pot shots at the brutes hiding in the ruined building. Miki skids around with her, hiding, leaning against the wall and gasping for breath. She tries to say something, anything, but all she can think of is the ghouls tearing into the dog, that huge behemoth with its spiked bat, the blood and the smell of death that soaks this place through.

Two hundred years. _I want my son. I want my world back. I want this nightmare to be over._

“Blue, I’m so sorry.” Piper hastily reloads. “I thought you were right behind me. I’m so sorry.”

Miki feels cold all over. Shivering. _Haah._

The rifle’s in her hands. It feels so… heavy. But not in a way that makes her arms shake. It’s an anchor. It helps her thoughts find something to cling to, to focus on. It’s a rifle. A good, sturdy weapon.

The voice is foreign and familiar and it speaks through her fear. _You know what to do._

She leans out from cover, takes aim - it’s not a deer, but the lumpy skull of something rough and green. Pull. Blackened blood sprays against the opposite wall. Pull, and there’s more blood, more gore, less of a skull.

“Nice shootin’, Blue!”

Reload. Trembling fingers know this gun. Not from military drills, but from going hunting with her family. Mom, grandpa, Nate, all those cousins and in-laws… _You know what to do_. And she does. A gun like this, she’s taken down plenty. Squirrels. Birds. Rabbits. Deer.

Super mutants.

A few more shots, then both women pull back. The quiet comes back, at last, but not completely. There’s soft snarling, and the wet crunching and tearing of flesh. The ghouls must have survived.

To feast.

Miki retches silently into the gutter. Piper rubs Miki’s back and mumbles an apology, then helps her up and guides her further back from the road. “Here we are.”

“… Goodneighbor.” Miki straightens, still breathing hard, but with that neon sign holding her attention, the shivers slowly fade. One word, Goodneighbor. She’d expected two. She doesn’t know why this bothers her. Why it scratches at her memory and whispers a name - _Mary_ \- and a date, and history that was ancient even when she was young. Miki shakes her head, groaning, trying to focus on the present.

“… you okay, Blue?”

“‘m fine,” she breathes, trying to make the lie feel real. “… just… _fuck_. I think I need a drink.”

“Well, we’re in the right place for that.” She claps Miki’s shoulder, squeezes gently, then holsters her pistol and steps forward. “I mean, it’ll probably knock you on your ass, but better the booze than the mutants, right?”

 _We almost -- I almost died_. She follows the reporter in a daze. _I was all alone and I almost died_. She wants to sit down and breathe, for a while, to be thankful for all her limbs, all her skin, every beat of her heart, all of it being right where it was supposed to be. But Piper doesn’t let her rest. She coaxes Miki onward like a skittish horse, soothing words, gentle voice, the promise of a reward. No stopping here. No moment to be grateful. Why?

The answer follows quickly, as they slip through the narrow gap in the barricades: sitting down being thankful to be alive is a good way to get killed. Keep moving. Keep going forward.

 _Don’t stop. Never stop_.

She sees people glaring at her, suspicious. Ragged, gaunt-faced people with dirt on their faces and drug-use shadows under their eyes. The buildings are as ruined in here as they were out there. Barrels burn and crackle with barely-contained trash fires. The air reeks. What kind of refuge is this?

“Blue.” Piper rests a hand on Miki’s arm. “You can put the rifle down. It’s okay.”

She was still holding it. She hadn’t realised.

“S’a nice piece,” a rough man in old biker leathers nods approvingly.

“Thanks,” Miki eyes him as she lowers the rifle, flicks the safety on, and slides it into the holster at her back. Her hands aren’t shaking as badly now.

“Welcome to Goodneighbor, ma’am. I’m guessin’ this is your first time?”

“She’s with me,” Piper interrupts. “It’s fine.”

Miki glances sidelong at the reporter, wondering at the possessive tone in the woman’s voice.

“But it’s still her first time.” The rough man gives Miki an unpleasant little smile. “And in a town like this? You can’t just go walkin’ around without some insurance.”

“Insurance?” Miki frowns. She notices that the people who were watching her enter now no longer have their eyes in her direction. One man even has his sunglasses on and is determinedly sweeping the broken cobbles. Everyone has something else to do, now. They’re certainly not watching her.  

“Yeah. Tell you what, you just hand over that rifle, and anything else you got in those pockets of yours, or accidents start happening to you.” He leans close. “Big, bloody accidents.”

Her nose wrinkles at the smell of his breath. But she barely has time to hiss something equally threatening back at him when there’s movement from the far side of the street.

“Whoa, whoa, time out.” Someone steps out of the shadows, voice calm and authoritative. “Someone steps through the gate the first time? They’re a guest.” He passes by the white-painted door and mantle of the Old State House, and Miki sees the silhouette and colour. A tricorn hat, high leather boots, a red frock coat. A voice like velvet over gravel, a sly cat’s purr. “So you lay off that extortion crap.”

The rough man turns away, stepping up to the challenger. “What do you care? She ain’t one of us.”

Miki glances down to her blue suit (‘not one of us’, hah, yeah, sure, got that right), then over again to the man - was it a man? God, look at those burns on his face - dressed like a revolutionary. She thinks of Preston, and the Minutemen, and again that little history lesson scratches at her brain. _Mary. Mary Goodneighbor. She got this place shut down. What a woman, what a woman she must have been_.

 _That was hundreds of years ago_ , Miki tries to reassert herself. But she knows that hat, that coat, that building behind him. History and past and present blur and she feels light-headed.

“No love for your mayor, Finn? I said let her go.”

“You’re soft, Hancock.” The rough man, Finn, points in accusation at the man in the frock-coat. “You keep letting outsiders walk all over us? One day, there’ll be a new mayor.”

The square is almost empty now, the audience having slipped away a while ago. A woman with broad shoulders leans against the gun-store wall and watches, a hand on her hip. Piper is tense. The man with the broom has edged into the corner in silence. Miki alone feels like she’s listening to two different conversations at once.

 _‘Hancock’. What the **fuck**_.

“C’mon, maaaan.” The burned man swaggers forward. “This is me we’re talkin’ about. Here… lemme tell you somethin’.” He spreads his hands, and Finn watches Hancock’s left arm, suspicious.

Miki feels a yelp rise to her throat, a call of warning, as Hancock suddenly flourishes a blade in his right, but she’s not fast enough to make a sound. The left hand clamps down on Finn’s shoulder while the blade drives into Finn’s chest, twice, the sound wet and rough and visceral. Finn drops with scarcely a groan, bleeding out on the cobbles at Miki’s feet. His blood is black; the blade hit the heart.

God. _God_.

“Now why’d you have to go and do that, huh?” Hancock cleans the blade on the flag he has wrapped around his waist like a sash. Red, white and blue get a new red stripe. “Breakin’ my heart over here.” He steps forward, out of the shadows, and his eyes - black, utterly black - study Miki thoughtfully. “You alright, sister?”

“You…” Her voice trembles. “You killed him.”

Burned lips twist in a smirk. “Got a good pair of eyes on ya. I think you’ll fit in here.”

The blade isn’t in his hands anymore. She doesn’t remember seeing him put it away. He’s fast, and he’s vicious. He’s burned, all over, missing a nose, chunks of skin, hair (eyebrows, eyelashes for sure; anything that might have been under the hat was a mystery); he’s dressed like he belongs at a re-enactment show. Its 200 years ahead of the time she knew, where men and women would dress up like they were 200 years from the past. So what does that make him? Right in the place he needs to be, not too far ahead and not too far behind?

As if he can read her mind, he touches the brim of his hat in salute. “Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people, you feel me? Everyone’s welcome.” The gentlemanly gesture is belied by a grin, a flick of the tongue over his teeth.

 _Of the people, for the people…?_ She squints at him, trying to find the words. Trying to find something to say. Her thoughts are all frazzled, her nerves in all the wrong place for conversation. From a near death experience outside the gates to murder to… what is this, flirting? In the span of less than ten minutes?

Hancock’s grin widens, and then his gaze slides sideways. “Even you, Little Miss Wright. How’s business?”

The reporter snorts, amused. “None of yours.”

“Can I quote ya on that?” He gives a dry raspy chuckle, then looks back at Miki. “Feel free to take some time gettin’ settled in. We cobbled this little neighbourhood together out of the freaks and misfits that just wouldn’t be accepted anywhere else. You make enough friends here,” he smirks again, and his gaze wanders over the blue and gold before he locks his gaze with hers again, “You’ll call this place home soon enough.”

“Home?” She raises an eyebrow. The warning shout meant for Finn might not have come fast enough, but this? This question came out even before she was ready for it.

Hancock just smiles like he knows something she doesn’t, taps the brim of his hat, and turns to saunter away. The woman with broad shoulders keeps watching, staring Miki down with a measuring gaze, but eventually pushes away from the wall and turns to follow after the mayor.

Piper lets out a huff. “… so, yeah. Sorry, I should’ve warned you about him. He’s, uh, a bit… he might be a bit much.” She shakes her head, then gives a small chuckle. “But he keeps things safe out here for all these people, which is… you know, better than the alternative.” A splay of the fingers. “Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor.”

Miki clenches her fists, and finds her hands aren’t shaking at all. Strange. “What happened to his face? Why is he all…?”

“He’s a ghoul. You’ll find a bunch of ‘em around here.”

She remembers the withered things outside, tearing the dog to meaty chunks.

Piper sees the look on Miki’s face, and shakes her head. “Feral ghouls and ghouls are way different, don’t worry. Um. Look, you wanna get that drink, now? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

She doesn’t feel like she is. She’s fine. There’s a dead man at her feet. She steps over him, and leaves him for the scavengers. She’s fine. Two steps more, and… she has to lean on the wall. The wall of the Old State House. There’s a ghoul dressed up like John Hancock who just smiled at her and… There’s a dead man right behind her. She’s not fine.

“… yeah, Piper, something to drink sounds real good.”

* * *

200 years hasn’t aged it well, and it might have been watered down or mixed with something that wasn’t fit for human consumption, but god, the burn of the bourbon is good. It tastes like the chastisement she deserves.

Piper sighs as she sits down on the couch. “No news about Nick. No-one seems to have spotted him. Not even Charlie, and he sees just about everyone down here.” She waggles her beer bottle. “Don’t worry, Blue. We’ll find him. Nicky can’t have gotten too far.”

Heavy, ferocious burn, right down her throat, and the alcohol content is already starting to hammer at her brain. Lightweight. She supposed she should be proud of that, of how far she’d come, over how much the pregnancy had changed her. But she can’t. She’s thinking about Nick being lost in the ruins, a snack for ghouls or target practice for the mutants. Everyone else is so confident, but there’s a wall at every single turn. How is she supposed to find Shaun?

 _Keep moving, that’s how. Don’t ever stop_.

The bar’s crowded. Dingy, dusty; the occupants, degenerates, drug-addicts, and drifters. Hungry faces and sharp, suspicious eyes. But no-one’s fighting. Everyone’s paying up and relaxing with their drink and drug of choice. Organised chaos. Organised anarchy. _Of the people, for the people_. Miki sips her bourbon, and wonders if this is the kind of future the founding fathers imagined. And then the follow-up thought makes her laugh: John Hancock, with his devil-may-care and big-ass signature, might have loved this kind of joint.

“… _whoa_.”

Miki turns her head to see what caught Piper’s attention, and soon she’s staring just as intently. Red, bright red, catching the light and gleaming, shimmering sequins on silk. Skin so pale it might as well be alabaster. Amidst all the rust and tattered clothes, she is pristine. This woman has that kind of glamourous perfection that never changes, is never dated, and Miki can’t take her eyes away. She takes the stage, planting her feet firmly on the ragged chequer tiles as she leans into the microphone. A radio starts to play something soft and jazzy: the humming pulse of a bass, the soft whisper of snare and high-hat, the light and breezy trill of the woodwind. Jazz.

“ _Like an earthquake, startin’ to roll, I felt my world shake, out of control. Like a world war startin’ to brew. Baby, it’s just you_.”

She has her eyes open, staring out at the audience, but her focus is on the song, the sound, the music. She moves so well, the graceful sway of her hips keeping time. Her fingers trail lightly up and down the microphone pole, before one hand sweeps outwards, all-encompassing. She commands the eyes, the attention of her whole audience, with these spare gestures and her rhythmic shimmies. The music moves around her, every beat, every note.

 “… _wakin’ up without a clue. Baby, it’s just you_.”

And her voice, her voice was dusky velvet, confidence and power. She makes Miki’s bourbon taste better, gave the grimy old bar a kind of sepia gleam. Motes of dust and coils of cigarette smoke gleam in the yellowed light, light that’s not quite gold, but close enough. Yellowed, and old, and grimy, but there’s a romance to it, down here. People listen; maybe they start seeing the world a little better, too.

“ _Help me, help me, rescue my heart. Save me, save me, from fallin’ apart_ …”

Music. Miki sits back, staring, wondering at the way the world seems to have changed as soon as the music started. Her heart is beating steadily, and her body feels warm, comfortable, safe. She can’t even feel the _silence_ in her throat anymore. It’s still there, but it doesn’t clutch at her in painful tightness, anymore. Down, deep down, almost like it won’t ever come back.

“… _you’ve got the power, you’ve got the cure_ …”

Miki sips her drink, and looks around, feeling oddly… content. There’s no other word for it. The other music on the radio might leave her gasping, but… this? This was smooth and real. This made the present more bearable. It didn’t make her feel like she was drowning in yesterday.

“ _Baby, it’s just, baby it’s just, baby, it’s just you_.”

“… whoa.” Piper says again, quietly. But it’s loud in the quiet. Miki glances sidelong at the reporter, and fights not to smile.

The woman on stage hears it, too, and she doesn’t repress her smile near as well. She leaves the stage, moving over to the couch. “I take it you enjoyed the song, ladies?” Her voice is just as smoky without the microphone, her eyes and smile just that secret kind of knowing that would have a starlet green with envy.

“I loved it.” Miki found herself smiling for the first time since… since _then_. The big ‘then’, cold and dark and… impossible to think about while the air’s so hazy and soft, and this glamourous woman is holding her gaze. “It was perfect.”

“Great set tonight, ma’am.” Piper’s freckles show starkly on her skin as she blushes. “Of songs, I mean. Um. Is it warm in here, or just…?” She clears her throat and takes a deep swig of her drink. _Hopefully_ , Miki thinks, _the beer tastes better than her foot_.

The singer chuckles softly. “Oh, thank you. A girl tries her best.” She reaches up to stroke a strand of hair behind her ear, and her eyes flick over Miki contemplatively. "Mm, look at you. You're a survivor, aren't you? I bet the whole world could stand in your way and you'd just keep going."

“Hah,” Miki looks aside, feeling a little warmth in her that had nothing to do with her bourbon. “One can only hope.” Hope.

“I have an eye for these kind of things.” The singer’s smile is still right there, when Miki looks back to see it. “And something tells me that you have a lot of songs in you. Or you will, when all is said and done.” She cocks her head, as though inviting Miki to prove her right, or wrong, or… something.

Miki shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m much for the spotlight anymore.”

“Oh, darling.” The singer sighs, and her expression softens in sympathy. “You gotta get it out, one way or another. Songs don’t hurt no-one, unless you hold them in.”

“Aww, don’t tell me I missed it!”

Miki tenses up slightly at the familiar rasp, and turns to watch the Mayor and his entourage making their way down into the Third Rail: Hancock, his broad-shouldered bodyguard, and a cluster of drifters and suit-wearing toughs. The death of Finn lingers like a ghost; the blood is still on Hancock’s sash. “Mags, baby, sweetheart, you _can’t_ be done singing yet!”

“Not at all, mister mayor.” The singer says, smiling. “I was just getting warmed up.”

“And sayin’ ‘hi’ to our newest guest,” Hancock sidles over. “I can dig that.” He plops himself down at the other end of the sofa, fishing for something out of his coat as he does so. His troops fan out and find places to sit or stand. The bodyguard leans against the back wall; Miki swears she can feel the woman’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “Ready when you are, Mags.”

The singer smiles knowingly and moves back to the stage.

“Magnolia’s the best voice in town,” Hancock leans over to tell Piper and Miki, proudly, “Maybe even the whole Commonwealth.”

“She’s amazing,” Piper murmurs, sighing softly.

Miki glances around the reporter, to the historically-dressed ghoul. “Does she write her own music? Lyrics and all?”

“Yup!” He has some kind of inhaler, putting it to his lips and taking a sharp inhale. Miki watches in unnerved fascination at the way his radiation-burned face slackens, his eyelids fluttering closed. She’s still watching when he turns suddenly, and smiles. There’s a dopey quality to the expression and a heat to his gaze. She recognises that look a mile away; some things don’t change, even after all this time. She knows a user.

She just doesn’t know _what_ kind of drug it was that he took.

Piper makes a discontented hum, and rises from the couch. She mumbles something about needing another beer, sidling bar-wards as Magnolia starts her next song (soulful piano, melancholy sax, the pout of perfect lips and the roll of a head that bares an alabaster neck). Hancock sprawls out over the spot vacated by the reporter, and waggles the inhaler in Miki’s direction in unspoken offering.

She meets his grin with a slight shake of her head, and raises her glass of bourbon, before turning back to the stage to listen, and to watch a master at work.

Magnolia’s soft croons make the room a dusky blue now. Smoke lingers in the air from cigarettes lit up from Hancock’s crowd, the tips of each one glowing like a firefly. Miki drinks, and lets the comfortable burn ease her down, lets the soulful sounds just sink in. Oh, yes, there’s still an urgency thrumming deep within her veins - she has a purpose and a path she won’t be deterred from. But she knows a night like this. She’s known many of them, back in college, back in the law firm, back. Manic, frustrating days need a gentle end, or the next day sinks its teeth in worse than the day before.

It helps that she doesn’t know the song, that she’s never heard it before. There’s a mood like the days she’d known before, but none of the mental images. She’ll go to work in the morning, just like she used to. Just now, she has a rifle and a suit of blue.

She sets down her glass on the table, next to her helmet, and runs a hand through her hair. Sighing, stretching out her legs. Miki risks a moment to close her eyes, to reassure herself that she’s still here, and still here when she opens her eyes again. Yup. She’s here. And there’s Piper at the bar, sipping a beer; Hancock sprawled out alongside her, head pillowed on one arm as he takes another hit from his inhaler.

A lazy Goodneighbor evening, huh? With the world gone to shit and so many things out there trying to kill her, she certainly doesn’t begrudge this.

Scattered applause, a wolf-whistle from the crowd, a soft growl of approval from the ghoul. Magnolia bows, and taps the speaker in front of her. A new song, a new sound.

And the peace Miki thought she’d found shatters in an instant.

“ _Train train! Whoo whoo!_ ”

The lights are brighter, now, and flicker in time with the music. The crowd stirs, bobbing and swaying in time, while Magnolia flicks her hips and her hair. Everyone’s having a great time.

Almost.

Miki doesn’t know this song either. But her hands clench and her body goes rigid as she feels past and present overlay, and the silence starts throttling her from the inside out.

“ _You know you train-trained to be a soldier at war…_ ”

… She remembers his uniform folded in pride of place, the way he’d smile, how he’d hold himself so tall…

 _“… that was before we heard the bang-bang, and then it started to change…_ ”

… the newsreader hanging his head in despair, the bright sunshine, the sight of her neighbours holding each other and sobbing as they’re left behind, the breathless run up the hill, the wail of the siren…

“… _heard the boom-boom, it was a horrible sound_ …”

… the blinding light, the silhouette in front of her, the rumble of the ground as the force of the blast washed over them. She can’t breathe…

“… _we went underground_ …”

… the sobbing, the concrete walls, the people in blue suits with their placid, friendly faces ushering them all in… _You’re safe now_. _Female, male, infant. Vault tech is here for you_.

“… _now in the room, room_ …”

 _The pod will decontaminate and depressurise you before we head deeper in the Vault_. The face stutters like an old film-reel movie, and it’s someone else, looming closer to the frosted glass. The scar, the smirk, the echo of the gunshot. _At least we have the backup_. The gunshot, that single shot…

“… _round and round and round! Can’t go forward, can’t go back…_ ”

Miki stumbles up from the couch, and she’s surprised her legs can take her anywhere. She feels so cold. She can barely see. Her knee bumps the table and the helmet bounces off the floor but she needs out, she needs air, she needs… she needs…

“… _you’d better relax_ …”

She takes the stairs two at a time, stumbling, leaning on the wall for support, brick dust catching at her fingertips and under her nails. Black lines reach in the edge of her sight, her body screaming and burning for air, she needs _air_ …

 “… _tomorrow you can start finding your way back to civilisation_!”

The bathroom door swings shut behind her, shutting of the sound of the music from downstairs. At that comes through is muffled and indistinct. She leans hard on the sink, staring into the rusty plughole. She breathes, a painful shuddering inhale, fighting with every inch of her being to pull the air into her lungs. The _silence_ is overwhelming, sour on her tongue. She stares at the white porcelain, gagging and choking, trying to remember what she needs to do to breathe.

“Haaah. Haaah. _Haaaaah_.”

Downstairs, the music thuds like a heartbeat. In here, the bathroom echoes with the sound of her barely-concealed agony.

“Hhhhaah. Haaaaaah…”

Her hands shake as she reaches for the faucet, twists and twists; she needs the water, splash on her face, shock herself back to normal. But nothing comes. The pipes are dry and dead, it’s been 200 years and there’s no running water here. Dust and rust and ruin. Even the mirror is shattered, and what shards remain are all grimy and discoloured, like they’ve been frozen. Grey and patterned though frosted with ice. She can’t look, she can’t look, because what if she doesn’t see her face, but _his_? And behind _him_ , behind the scarred man, there’s her husband, his brains smeared all over the…

The music gets louder, then quieter again. A footstep; someone’s in the bathroom with her. Someone’s watching her.

She’s glad, for a moment, for a split second, for the _silence_ , because the limitation on her breathing gives her a second, a precious second, to pull herself together. She’s bent over the sink, shuddering as though she’d just thrown up. It’s okay. It’s okay, no-one needs to know. She can keep it together.

“Sorry, Piper.” Her voice is so calm, so steady, she surprises herself. “I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

Breathe: shuddering inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. She keeps her eyes on the plug-hole, and uses those rusty circles to centre herself.  _Cough. Cough, though it makes your whole body shake. Maybe you’ll throw up for real_.

Throwing up would be nice. It’d be nice to have some kind of result for feeling this shitty.

But there’s no result, just the way past and present and future-present all fight for dominance in her mind’s eye.

“You look a bit on edge.”

It’s not the voice she was expecting, and she jolts up. The mayor stares evenly back at her, arms folded, leaning against the wall.

She gapes for a moment, hands still clutched to the edge of the sink. “Th… this is the women’s bathroom.”

He smirks, but the amusement fades quickly. He says nothing.

She turns away from his stare. She doesn’t want to answer his questions. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t even think she can, right now. She has to fight just to find the right balance between inhale and exhale.

The music keeps pulsing downstairs. He sets something on the sink. “Here. This’ll help.” His voice is low. Soft. Gentle, as though she’s a skittish horse about to bolt.

She recognises it. The drug of choice for soldiers, morphine addicts, and belaboured housewives everywhere, now in a convenient over-the-counter easy-use syringe. Med-X. She stares into the gleaming purple glass. Distraction, from the _silence_ , which releases her, claw by claw. She can breathe. She can speak.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t.” She picks it up and offers it back to him. “I can’t.”

He doesn’t take it back. When she looks up at him, his gaze is so… concerned. Even with those pitch-black eyes and scars and the missing nose, she can read his face.

Belatedly, she thinks to try to explain herself. “… what else do they put in the bourbon down there? Fuck.” She runs a hand through her hair. “… been on the wagon too long, I guess.”

Hancock doesn’t look like be believes her. He tilts his chin towards the syringe. “Keep it,” he says, softly. “In case you change your mind.”

She takes her arm back, before she starts shaking again. “… okay.” Holding it. Staring at it. God, wouldn’t it be so easy to just jam it in and push the plunger? Sweet bliss for a moment. For a while. … no. No no no. Not again. No distractions. She needs to be her, not the chemicals in her head. She has to be herself, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how hard it is to breathe.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, sister?” The ghoul’s head tips to one side, and his eyes narrow slightly. “You came with the reporter, so it obviously ain’t a holiday. And you certainly didn’t come here just to try Charlie’s house special.” He sounds so different. When he’d been speaking to Finn, his voice was a growl, a rasp, the sound of a lazy, hungry tiger. But now it’s just dry and soft. He’s not speaking to her as the mayor. Just… person to person.

Miki looks aside, swinging her pack over her shoulder, sliding the Med-X inside, under the scraps and spare clothes and ammunition. Maybe she _will_ need it. Or maybe it’ll be worth a few caps to someone. “I’m looking for Nick Valentine. I heard he came through here.”

“Whaddaya need ol’ Nicky for?”

She swallows the last scraps of _silence_ , then pushes away from the sink. “Someone killed my husband and stole my son.” She faces the ghoul, aching and trembling. But she stands up as tall as she can. “Nick Valentine might be the only person who can help me find the people responsible, and help me get my baby back.”

Hancock rolls his tongue in his mouth. “Shit.” A soft exhale, and then he nods. “Yeah. Okay. He is that kind of guy. He doesn’t quit, so… yeah. Shit. That’s some heavy stuff right there.” Again, the sympathetic look. The lingering concern.

Miki grips the sink tight. “You know him. You know Nick.” The music downstairs is softer. She feels her heart racing for a whole different reason. “Do you know how I can find him?”

“He hasn’t been through town in a while.” Hancock scratches his chin, withered fingers catching on the burns around his jawline. “But he spends a lotta time at the Memory Den, whenever he’s in town. Might be you’ll find out where he went from there.”

“The Memory Den.” She breathes, easily. Finally. A step closer to Shaun. And how about that? A mayor who actually helps out. She hadn’t been expecting that. Not after running into the last one.

“But I’m thinkin’ you probably wanna take it easy, for a while.” Hancock pushes away from the wall. “Between the time you had gettin’ here, and what happened at the gate? C’mon. Next round of drinks is on me. For you and your buddy.” He gestures, as though offering to put a hand on her arm. But he keeps his distance. “It’ll be the good stuff, too. Won’t make you sick like that glass of shit you were drinking before.”

 _He knows. Fuck_.

Miki looks back into the sink. “… sounds good. I’ll… I’ll be down in a minute. Thanks, Hancock.”

There’s a pause. He moves. The door swings open, then closes again. Quiet. Alone. Miki rests her head against the cold, cold porcelain and just breathes.

Downstairs. Down. She can’t go down. Not down there, not again. Not with the red that’ll catch her eye and the music that will make her forget where she is and what she needs to do.

She heads past the bouncer and into Goodneighbor’s nighttime streets. Dark, so dark. She doesn’t know where to look, but she follows the strings of lights and the flickering streetlamps. A glowing sign draws her in, over faded lettering that promises an ‘a_l s_ar vaudev_lle re_eu’. Red lights. Scollay Square.

 _Mary_ , her memory helpfully prods.

 _No_ , she thinks, as she moves forward and pushes the door open. _Not Mary. Miki. And she’s going to find Nick Valentine_.


End file.
